


Azira Fell and the Apocalypse Scroll

by miraworos



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1930s Egypt, 1930s Oxford, Action/Adventure, Adventurer Crowley, Anathema and Newt are assistants, Author may have gone a bit overboard in the research department, Because Egypt is cool, Demisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Egyptology, Eventual Sex, First Kiss, First Time, Gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide Aziraphale, Indiana Jones AU, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Look there's going to be pining, Lots of plot with a happy ending, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Professor Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, Rating May Change, Slow Romance, Smart Aziraphale, Some mild commentary on the downsides of religious evangelism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 74,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23286163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraworos/pseuds/miraworos
Summary: The hunt is on for a mysterious and deadly scroll with the power to topple the world into chaos. Will Dr. Azira Fell, professor of Egyptology, find it in time to prevent the impending apocalypse? Or will an evil organization bent on destroying civilization find it first? To have even a chance at saving the world, he'll need to rely on the wily Anthony J. Crowley, professional guide and adventurer. But can Azira trust the inscrutable explorer, or will he lose his heart along with his life?
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 324
Kudos: 145
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Journals and Expeditions

**Author's Note:**

> Eep! My first ever human-AU fic! So many firsts for me in this fandom.
> 
> Thanks as always to the invaluable [Z A Dusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/works), beta extraordinaire. This thing wouldn't be half as well put together if it weren't for them.
> 
> First three chapters will be posted to start. Updates posted weekly.
> 
> Feel free to comment, create spinoff art/fic/podfic, and rec to your heart's content, knowing that you've made this author's heart dance with joy. <333
> 
> Catch you on the flip side, ineffable nerds!

_Ashmolean Museum, Oxford - 1935_

Doctor Azira Fell hummed a few bars of Davies’ Op. 51 as he selected a couple of works from the Ashmolean library’s collection. Sunlight streaming through the clerestory window above ignited the gold-embossed lettering on the cover of a book chronicling the Ptolemaic dynasty near the end of the Hellenistic period. To Azira, who practiced knowledge the way others practiced religion, the glow seemed an omen of the treasure within.

Descending the step stool, he carried the volumes to a nearby table. He laid them as softly as possible on the polished oak and tugged the lamp chain. Then he sat in the high-backed chair, wiggling ever so slightly with the anticipation of the chase.

The passages for which he was searching would likely be buried in the usual drivel of martial accounts, rankings, and supply inventories. The Romans really were such tiresome windbags about conquest. Very few saw the forest through the trees with all their facts and figures and mind-numbing reports. Thus, it was up to Egyptologists like Dr. Azira Fell, associate faculty of Oriental Studies at the University of Oxford, thank you very much, to find the occasional tree that hinted at the actual forest.

Azira took out his small, leather-bound journal, opened it to where the stub of a pencil was wedged into its pages, and began to record the call numbers of the volumes he’d selected. With any luck, he’d have a few hours uninterrupted by students to collect a handful of tidbits meriting further investigation.

“Dr. Fell!”

Azira’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly. So much for uninterrupted hours. He hadn’t even made it five minutes.

“Dr. Fell, you have to see this.”

Anathema Device, Azira’s research assistant and the first American woman to study Oriental Studies at Oxford, popped out from behind a set of nearby stacks, breathless with excitement.

“There you are,” she said. “I knew you’d be prowling around the 932s. Look at this.”

She hurried forward, holding a hardcover book open toward him. He recognized it at once as her mother’s account of her expedition to Nubia at the turn of the century, before Anathema was born. Her mother’s obsession with Egyptology inspired Anathema’s own passion for the profession.

“What is it, dear?” he said, as he took the book from her hands.

“I’ve read this entire thing cover to cover so many times, but I never noticed this before,” she said, her face alight like it always was when she made a new conceptual connection or discovery in her research.

Azira looked at the place on the page to which she was pointing, but didn’t immediately see the source of her excitement.

“I don’t understand,” he said apologetically.

She took the book back and read aloud. “In late 34 BC, authorities on behalf of Emperor Octavian claimed that Mark Antony had stolen a sacred scroll from the Library of Pergamum and gifted it to Cleopatra of Egypt as recompense for the burning of the Alexandrian scroll collection during Caesar’s Civil War.”

“Yes, but that was a false account to discredit Antony. Your mother knew that. We all know that.”

“That’s not the interesting part,” Anathema said, grinning wider. “It says a sacred scroll as in _one_ —not many. Scholars generally accept that the rumor stated Antony gave Cleopatra something like 20,000 Pergamum scrolls. Not one sacred one.”

Azira stood up. “You think she means _the_ scroll? The scroll about th-the—Macedonian, er—”

“The Macedonian spice route,” she finished for him with a significant look. “Yes. I think she could have meant that. Hiding an indicator in plain sight is just like her.”

He took the book from her again and traced the spidery writing with excitement. Anathema’s mother was considered the preeminent authority on all things occult during the Ptolemaic Dynasty. That’s how Anathema had come to learn of the sacred scroll in the first place, through bedtime stories her mother had told her. Azira had learned of the scroll through other means, naturally, but when each had discovered the other knew of it, they instantly formed a bond that, over the last two years, had led to a close and trusted friendship.

“There’s more,” Anathema said, eyes dancing. “I looked up _sacred scroll_ in her index, and the page it has listed is a separate page entirely, with no mention of a sacred scroll at all.”

“Which page?”

Anathema flipped the pages while Azira held the book for her. She stopped a third of the way further forward in the book, and pointed at a sketch of statue.

“I’m betting it’s some kind of coded location. But I haven’t worked out if it’s the picture or the words or both.”

“Good lord, Anathema. Are you sure it isn’t just a misprint?”

Anathema arched a cool eyebrow at him. “My mother never made mistakes. Not when it came to her study of Egypt. Never once.”

And, of course, she was right. Azira suggesting that the book was flawed was ludicrous. He had found firsthand accounts with less historical accuracy than the meticulously researched analysis he was now holding.

“Agnes Nutter, you sly devil,” Azira said, scanning the page Anathema had indicated. “You realize this means that not only did she know where the scroll was, or at least what happened to it—“

“—she also knew it was too dange—er, valuable, I mean—historically speaking—to let fall into the wrong hands.”

Azira was too lost in thought to chastise her near slip, though heaven knew what spies lurked in the stacks, just waiting for a crumb of information to fall.

“So it does exist,” he muttered to himself. “It does exist, and its location is knowable. It has been found at least once, and if it could be found by her…”

“It can be found by people other than us. Which could be bad.”

Azira tapped his lips, turning the puzzle over in his mind as he gazed at the page. “But where to start? We can’t go haring off into the desert without a proper destination in mind, my dear. We simply can’t afford it.”

“We could ask the Egypt Exploration Fund for an investment.”

“An investment for what? We’d need to tell them what we were looking for—”

“—the Macedonian spice route—”

“—as well as actually produce something of value upon our return. We can’t excavate a ghost, Anathema. No one would subsidize that.”

“On the contrary, brother,” boomed a voice from near the staircase about ten feet away from Azira and Anathema. “We may be able to come to some arrangement.”

Gabriel, patriarch of Azira’s extended family and, regrettably, Azira’s half-brother, approached their table with a jackal’s smile.

“What kind of arrangement?” Azira said with trepidation. He didn’t trust Gabriel any farther than he could throw him, family or no.

“Well, it just so happens Mother has a keen interest in the Byzantium-antiquities trade gaining momentum in the Mediterranean region.”

“What do tourist trinkets have to do with my research on the, er, the evolution of the gastronomical trade in the early Roman Empire?”

“I think your interests overlap quite nicely with the Foundation’s objectives in this case.”

The Foundation was the philanthropic arm of the White Dove evangelical organization Azira’s extended family had founded generations ago. It used monetary inducements to attract vulnerable populations into the fold, often at the price of sacrificing their cultural identity and heritage. That’s what had pushed Azira toward Egyptology and the study of antiquities in the first place. He wanted to protect the cultures and histories and identities of the people that White Dove’s Foundation tended to erase.

“What are the Foundation’s objectives, if I may?”

“Profit, of course. Profit that can then be turned to…charitable causes.”

“And by charitable, you mean missionary, I presume?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Don’t forget that a sizable donation from the Foundation helps maintain this academic institution you love so much.”

“You still haven’t said what it is you want me to do,” Azira reminded Gabriel as Anathema slowly closed her mother’s journal and eased backward to be half-hidden behind Azira. _Smart girl_.

“We need you to travel to Cairo and make inroads with the traders in antiquities. You have an eye for these things. You can tell when something is worth procuring.”

“And what do you intend to _do_ with any relics I obtain?”

“Why, resell them, of course, at a price more fair for the discerning market,” Gabriel said. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the mysteries of the pharaohs have caught the imagination of others in the empire, others who happen to have the benefit of deep pockets. And why not indulge their petty interests if it encourages them to give generously to God’s chosen causes? In exchange, you could mount your expedition for your gastronomical …. whatever ... in your spare time, with our resources and our blessing.”

Azira pursed his lips, on the verge of refusing Gabriel’s request, no matter the familial consequence to himself. He didn’t need Gabriel’s blessing to go about his life, nor did he want it. If he was ever given it, he’d have to immediately examine at length whether he wanted to continue doing whatever it was that Gabriel approved of. Azira wouldn’t go so far as to classify Gabriel as _evil_ —he was Azira’s brother after all—but if not outright malicious, then he was something just this side of it.

The refusal hovered on Azira’s tongue, despite the small nudge of a pointy elbow in his back. Anathema clearly wanted him to take the deal. But it was hardly worth the burden of being under Gabriel’s thumb again. The last time Azira had been in a similar position, it had not gone well.

“I wouldn’t know the first thing about setting up an antiquities trade, Gabriel. How would I even find these so-called traders? How would I know I could trust them to deliver a bona fide artefact?”

“No worries on that score,” he said with false amiability. He took a black card out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Azira. It simply read “Crowley,” with no address or number, only a snake sigil curled along the left-hand side. “This man is affiliated with a trusted business associate of mine. He’ll see to you, help you set up when you arrive.”

“And how do I find him, then?” Azira asked, agitated. “There are no details on this card.”

“Oh, he’ll find you,” Gabriel assured him. “Your accounts have been furnished with whatever funds you might need for travel and expenses.”

Guide or not, funding or not, Azira simply didn’t have the wherewithal to do what Gabriel was asking.

“Gabriel, I don’t think—“

Gabriel took that moment to lean into Azira’s personal space, looming over the shorter man with a deceptively mild expression.

“Listen, Sunshine. I may have understated things when I posed this as a request. You will do as I say, or I will be forced to withdraw my protection from you and my financial support from this fine academy. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Azira swallowed. Much as he’d regret the loss of the funds to the university, the larger threat lay in the euphemistic “withdraw my protection from you,” which meant far more sinister things than the words themselves invoked.

“I look forward to monitoring your progress,” Gabriel said with barely concealed contempt as he shook Azira’s hand and tipped his hat to Anathema. “And, as always, Godspeed.”

Then with a dramatic swirl of his argent coat, he took his leave.

Azira stared speechless after his brother. He hadn’t even agreed to go. But that was how White Dove, and its founding family, operated. No one was permitted to say no. Questions were forbidden unless strictly necessary. Only the most powerful family members were chosen to lead, and if those leaders dictated that something be done, it was done—end of conversation.

Azira had thought he’d escaped it by becoming an academic. For the last fifteen years, he’d managed to skirt most family engagements and nod politely at the ones he couldn’t avoid, until almost no one in the family even remembered he existed, but for the annual expense in the ledger with _Oxford_ as the payee. Or so he’d thought. It appeared he was still very much on Gabriel’s mind, in the event that he might prove useful.

“Well, that was…something,” Anathema said, returning to her position by his side. “Is he always that pushy?”

“Most times, he’s worse,” Azira admitted glumly. Then he looked at the card in his hand, the snake sigil sending a thrill of foreboding down his spine. “Cairo.”

“Don’t look so downtrodden. This is exactly what we wanted,” Anathema said, laying a reassuring hand on his arm.

“It’s not the expedition that worries me,” Azira answered softly, tucking the card in his coat pocket. “It’s the demons we will owe when we return.”


	2. Guides and Guardians

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having arrived in Cairo, Azira and Anathema search for their supposed guide.

_Khan el-Khalili Bazaar, Cairo_

“Okay, okay. I’ll admit it. We’re lost,” Anathema said, huffing out a frustrated breath as she looked up from the map she’d been clutching in a death grip for the last hour.

“Thank you,” Azira said, prissily. He took the map from Anathema’s hands and carefully folded it, tucking it away in his knapsack. “When Gabriel said this Crowley fellow would find us, I assumed he meant at the aeroport. Had I realised we'd be left wandering the streets like vagabonds, I’d have made sure to get better directions before we left Southampton.”

The cacophony of the market bazaar howled around them, flinging colors and smells every which way and quite overwhelming Azira’s senses. He could barely hear his traveling companion above the din.

“Perhaps we ought to ask around for Crowley,” he said finally, raising his voice a few decibels. “One of these good merchants must have heard of him.”

Anathema looked skeptical but didn’t protest, likely because she had no better idea to offer.

So Azira ducked into one of the nearby stalls and asked, in Standard Arabic that was perhaps a trifle over-formal, if the merchant happened to know of a man named Crowley, and if so, where he might be found.

The merchant’s expression transformed from simpering to scathing so quickly that, at first, Azira assumed he’d accidentally said something horrifically offensive. The man chased them from his stall with an angry litany of words rattled off too fast for Azira to follow.

“Good grief, what was that about?” Anathema asked.

“No idea, dear girl,” Azira said, staring in bafflement as the merchant disappeared behind his stall, arms still waving in indignation. “I am almost positive I phrased the question benignly. Unless there’s some idiom I’m unaware of that has cropped up in the last hundred years.”

“Hundred years?”

“Well, I’m a historian, you see. The books I read are usually either in English—”

“Or Koine,” Anathema finished for him. “I’m still shocked that you’ve never been to Egypt before.”

“I’m more of a researcher than an archaeologist, as you know. Authenticating sources, writing analyses...these things don’t usually require trips out of town, let alone out of country.”

“I know. I guess I just assumed you’d have tagged along on a dig at some point during your studies.”

“I wanted to,” Azira said. “I just…never had the opportunity.”

The truth was, he couldn't have undertaken such a trip without his family's funds, nor their blessing, and he hadn’t wanted to touch either with a ten-foot ceremonial barge pole, not after ... well. It didn't bear thinking about. In any case, that was then. He was here now. That was all that mattered.

“Let me try,” Anathema said, breaking through his thoughts. “My Arabic’s not great, but perhaps it’ll sound clearer with an American accent rather than an English one.”

The very idea. That an _American_ accent would be preferable to English? It didn’t even make sense, given that Egypt had been subsumed into the _British_ empire, for heaven’s sake. But Azira let the comment pass without protest. He hardly wanted to get into a political row with his assistant, especially not when he was tired and hungry and just really, really wanted to sit down. If they didn’t find this Crowley person in the next hour, he was going to call it a loss and head for the hotel.

Anathema walked up to a weaver at a textiles stall, surrounded by bolts of brightly patterned cotton cloth. When Anathema asked for directions to a Mr. Crowley, the woman clamped her lips together and shook her head. After rephrasing the question a few times, Anathema finally gave up and rejoined Azira in the main thoroughfare.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “Who _is_ this Crowley person?”

“Let’s try the stalls in a different area of the market. Perhaps these good people ran afoul of him in some way.”

For the next hour, Azira and Anathema took turns making inquiries about Crowley to anyone who looked like they might be local—merchants, taxi drivers, restaurant workers, even some of the children. They received a wide array of responses from simple shrugs to outright anger, but nothing resembling helpful information.

“I give up!” Anathema said finally. “Maybe the man just doesn’t exist.”

“There, there, we’ve done our best. The good news is that we now have an excuse to ignore the Foundation’s orders and head straight to Alexandria in the morning.”

Anathema frowned faintly at that. “Won’t they cut our funding if you don’t meet with the guy?”

“We’re already in the country. Gabriel may be terrible, but my family would not abandon me in a foreign land with no resources to survive on nor to return home. And if we keep expenses to a minimum, we may avoid their notice for long enough to accomplish our goal.”

Anathema sighed and nodded. “I think we can manage that.”

Azira was about to suggest finding a nearby hotel and taking a much deserved rest when Anathema gasped and lunged forward.

“My bag!” she yelled, taking off after a small, stooped-shouldered person who’d absconded with her pack. “The book!”

“Saints preserve us!” Azira shouted, running in her wake, holding his hat to his head and puffing lungfuls of air. He really wasn’t constructed for running and was falling gradually farther behind. “Anathema!” he called out.

She paused a moment to let him catch up and was about to begin the chase again when an affable voice with an unmistakable British accent said,

“Excuse me. Is this what you’re looking for?”

Anathema and Azira turned as one towards the speaker to see a genial looking man in thick-rimmed glasses, tall and clean shaven, holding the strap of Anathema’s bag. He held it out to her, and she snatched it away from him, glaring at him suspiciously. Then she threw open the flap and rooted around inside.

“Oh, thank God, it’s still here,” she said, staggering a little in relief. “It’s still here, Dr. Fell.”

“What in the world happened?” Azira asked, directing his question to the newcomer. “Did you arrange to steal my colleague’s bag?”

“Of course not,” the young man said, smiling openly. Then he stuck his hand out to Azira. “My name’s Newton Pulsifer.”

Azira hesitantly took the man’s hand and shook it. “Dr. Fell. And this is my colleague Anathema Device.”

“I assume you’re new to Cairo?” Mr. Pulsifer said as he gestured for them to follow him.

“Y-es,” Azira said, still unsure about whether following was a good idea. “Just arrived this morning.”

“Jasper—that’s the miscreant who tried to steal your bag—is a nice enough fellow once you get to know him.”

“Jasper?”

“He’s from Cork originally, but he’s lived so long in Cairo that he’s practically local.”

“Are you a local?” Anathema asked.

Mr. Pulsifer led them into a shadowy building constructed from bricks of dried mud and long wooden poles, as a street vendor in a fez served Turkish coffee at the door. Azira politely declined the man’s offer, though he’d dearly have loved refreshment of some kind. Perhaps after a brief respite, he could take advantage of the cezve on the way out. For now, Azira just needed someplace to sit.

“Me, no. I’m from Surrey,” said the young man, as he gestured them into a smaller, interior room, which had the benefit of being slightly cooler. “I came with my employer about ten years ago. It’s easy to lose track, though. Some days it feels like I’ve been here my whole life. Please, have a seat.”

He removed a stack of magazines from a rickety looking chair, and Anathema reluctantly sank into it. Another chair was hastily pulled in from an adjoining office for Azira, and he sat down as well, feeling as if the dust-covered, low-backed chair--not much grander than a stool, really--were a plush throne.

“Mr. Pulsifer, why was that man stealing my bag?” Anathema asked, her tone pointed.

“Please, call me Newt. Everyone does,” Newt said. “And honestly, I don’t know why Jasper took your bag. He’s not a thief, generally. Every once in a while, maybe, but not in broad daylight like that. British patrols keep everything well in line for the most part, so it was quite the risk.”

“Well, pardon me if I’m not overly impressed by his bravery,” Anathema said, her eyebrow arched. “How did you stop him?”

“Oh, I didn’t. He tripped. Happens sometimes. My clumsiness rubs off on people at the worst possible moments. Anyway, you were close enough behind him that he dropped the bag to save himself, I presume.”

“I see,” Anathema said, still studying him. For his part, Newt returned her look with one of good-natured curiosity.

“Do you know, you may be able to help us,” Azira broke in. “We are looking for a Mr. Crowley. Have you heard of him by any chance? And if so, can you direct us to him? We’ve been having a devil of a time trying to locate him.”

“That’s easy,” Newt said, his face breaking into a grin. “He’s here.”

“Here?” Azira asked, confused.

“Well, not _here_ here. He works here. This is his office. He’s my employer.”

“Really?” Anathema said, flabbergasted. “He’s your employer?”

Newt handed Anathema a small, flat card, with a familiar snake sigil adorning one side. She studied it in befuddlement for a second before looking up at Newt again.

“I don’t understand. Why is everyone so afraid of him? No one would talk about him or give us his location.”

Newt waved her off. “Oh, that’s nothing. Locals just don’t trust newcomers, and they are very protective of each other. Let’s just say, Crowley’s attracted a bit of…unwanted attention lately, and he’s asked them to avoid giving out his details to strangers.”

Azira’s heart sank further with every word. What had Gabriel gotten him into?

“What is it you need him for?” Newt asked, seeming to only belatedly realize that he himself was saying too much.

“I’m meant to meet him. My benefactor—” Better to leave family out of it for now, “—arranged for Mr. Crowley to be our guide once we arrived.”

“Didn’t your benefactor tell you that Crowley would find you?”

Azira exchanged an exasperated look with Anathema before responding.

“He did, but he did not mention that I’d be on _his_ schedule. I rather thought he’d be on mine.”

Newt laughed at that. “No, certainly not. Crowley is on Crowley’s schedule. Even I don’t know where he is at any given moment.”

“That doesn’t seem a sensible way to do business.”

Newt shrugged. “Works for us.”

“What exactly is your business anyway?” Anathema prodded.

“Best let Crowley explain it to you.”

Azira blinked at the infernal, hapless assistant. This was getting them nowhere. He was tired, sunburnt, and wasting away from lack of food. The very last thing he wanted to do was sit around in some stranger’s office, waiting Heaven knew how long for said stranger to appear.

“Well,” he said in a clipped tone. “I think we’ve gotten as much as we’re going to get here, my dear.” He offered Anathema his hand as he rose to his complaining feet. She took it, surprised, following his lead.

Newt rose from his seat as well. “You’re more than welcome to—”

“Oh, we wouldn’t dream of imposing, dear boy. We do have a hotel to be checking into. If you wouldn’t mind informing Mr. Crowley that we stopped by?”

“Not at all,” Newt answered, unperturbed. “Where shall I tell him you’re staying?”

Azira almost didn’t tell him. From the little he’d learned of Mr. Crowley so far—that he was unpredictable, often late, and worst of all, associated in some way with Gabriel—he was not particularly inclined to make his acquaintance. But if Gabriel did check up on Azira’s progress and Azira hadn’t done everything in his power to contact Crowley, Gabriel would not be pleased. Azira was useless at lying. Besides, there seemed very little likelihood that this reprobate Crowley would show up even if he did know the name of Azira’s hotel. He hardly seemed the sort to do the polite thing and make an effort to apologise for the trouble he managed to put them through.

“Shepheard's Hotel,” Azira said finally. “But we’ll only be there temporarily. After that, we will likely be traveling on.”

Newt wrote down the hotel’s name on a scrap of paper he’d torn from a days-old newspaper, judging by the yellow patina wrinkling its edges.

“That was strange,” Anathema said, after a quick fare-thee-well to their new acquaintance and exit to the street. “Did you see the paperweight he had on his desk?”

“I’m afraid I missed it,” Azira said as he hailed them a cab. He opened the door for Anathema and she climbed in. Azira got in after her and directed the driver to take them to Shepheard’s Hotel.

“It was a canopic jar. Twenty-sixth dynasty.”

“Twenty-sixth dynasty?” Azira repeated, surprised. “Surely not. That would be a rare and valuable find.”

“I’m telling you, it’s from the Saite Period, or I’ll eat my hat.”

Azira chuckled. “Well, don’t do that, my dear. I believe you. But it is strange that Mr. Crowley would have one in his office.”

An exhausted silence fell between them as they traveled to the hotel. Azira stared through the window, taking in the hustle and bustle of the bazaar. The surroundings were beautiful, the people intriguing, and the lure of rediscovering a lost and ancient wisdom called to his antiquarian heart. But Azira’s stomach was beginning to make its sentiments known more ardently than his heart, maybe even more than his exhaustion. He would need to procure them food before he settled into the hotel.

When they arrived, he alighted into the rapidly cooling twilight and then held the door open for Anathema.

“I can’t believe the sun is going down already,” she said around a yawn. “It’s been a hell of a day.”

Azira nodded his agreement. “You go on up to your room, my dear. I’m going to find us some food. Won’t be a minute.”

“I can go with you,” she argued, though her expression told a different story.

“Don’t be silly. I am only going a block or two to get something from the nearest deli. We’ll eat in our rooms and reconvene in the morning. I don’t know about you, but I’m completely tuckered out.”

Anathema sighed, relief painted across her features. “That sounds divine. I’ll eat whatever they have. Just no questionable looking meat.”

Azira smiled through his weariness. “No worries there, my dear. I _have_ standards.”

They parted ways—Anathema to her room, Azira towards the street that looked most likely to house eating establishments.

The trip took longer than he’d expected, though, and he got a bit turned around crossing the street. He’d emerged from behind a streetcar to an unfamiliar looking side-street. He made a quick turn to cut between a few buildings and found himself in a blind alley.

“Blast,” he muttered, and swiveled to exit the alley. But he hadn’t taken a single step before he was blocked in by a couple of street toughs.

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he said, in the rapidly darkening gloom. “I seem to have taken a wrong turn. Would you be so kind as to—”

The punch came out of nowhere. One moment, Azira was speaking, the next his cheek and ear seemed to explode under some external force, white static obscuring his vision. The taste of blood in his mouth brought him round just enough to register one of the men rifling through his knapsack.

“It’s not bloody here, Hastur. You tailed the wrong bloke.”

“Nah, it’s him alright,” said the man with the straw-colored hair as he set his booted foot on Azira’s sternum. Azira hadn’t even realized he’d been knocked to the ground until that moment. “Must be with the other one. The girl.”

“What do you want?” Azira said, attempting to wriggle out from under his attacker’s foot.

The man merely leaned more of his weight against Azira. “Can’t have this one running back to warn her.”

The other ruffian pulled a pistol from his satchel with a heavy sigh and pointed it at Azira. “You’re cleaning up the icky bits then, since it’s your—”

Eyes wide with horror, Azira threw his hands up to ward off the impending bullet. But the gun never fired. Instead, a thick, serpentine cord whipped out of the darkness from just behind Hastur to curl around the wrist of the man holding the gun. With a yank, the man’s arm flew wide, pointing the barrel at Hastur rather than Azira.

“What the heaven?” he yelped, backpedaling away from the gunman.

Then before he could regain his balance, a third person grabbed him by his jacket and hauled him into the shadows. A few muffled curses, a scuffle, and the sound of something metal hitting something hard and then silence fell again.

“Damn!” the gunman shouted, stowing his weapon and fleeing the scene.

Azira rolled to his side, assessing his injuries with careful fingers. He’d live, but his head was still ringing from Hastur’s blow.

“You alright?”

Azira pushed himself gingerly up to a sitting position, and then waited a moment for the walls to stop spinning.

“I believe I’ll be fine,” he said, blinking up at his rescuer. “Thanks to you.”

“Eh, just happened to be passing and heard the tussle.”

Azira blinked up at the person, a man with a wide-brimmed hat and a dusty jacket that had seen better days. A linen collared shirt open at his throat revealed skin tanned by days out in the sun. And the smile he offered Azira was more sardonic than nice, really, but it seemed genuine nevertheless. Azira couldn’t see his eyes, hidden as they were by the dim lighting and the shadow of the hat brim.

“I appreciate it, Mr.—”

“Crowley,” the man said as he squatted next to Azira and held out his hand. “Anthony J. Crowley, at your service.”


	3. Koshary and Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azira and Crowley eat dinner and talk business.

“Crowley?” Azira said, scrambling to his feet. “You must be joking.”

Crowley straightened to lean against the nearby brick wall with a practiced air of nonchalance. “If I were joking, I’d probably be laughing.”

Azira mumbled a curse as he rubbed his aching head. The cobblestoned street tilted alarmingly. He might have fallen back to the ground were it not for Crowley grabbing his elbow.

“We should get out of here before that tosser comes round. Can you walk?”

Azira blinked hard a few times, trying to reorient himself. “I— yes, of course, dear boy. If you would… er, lead the way.”

Crowley steered Azira by his elbow for a few steps before pausing to scoop up his fallen knapsack. Then they continued out to the street.

The breeze revived Azira like a cool, damp washcloth. He inhaled deeply, savoring the scents of spices and petrol and desert sands. It was at once both completely foreign and strangely soothing, as if he’d returned home unexpectedly from a long time abroad.

“Tourist, I take it?” Crowley said, tipping his hat brim back, and revealing more of his face in the lamplight. His angular features looked predisposed to sarcasm, though it was hard for Azira to interpret much beyond that, as the man wore dark glasses, despite the sun having long since set.

Azira opened his mouth, intending to say something along the lines of _well, you should know--you are supposed to be assisting me_. Then he remembered that Crowley had only been passing when he’d heard the goings-on in the alley. He hadn’t been there _looking_ for Azira and had no way of knowing the man he’d saved was his new charge.

“Not exactly a tourist,” Azira said instead, extending his hand toward Crowley, who took it. “I am Doctor Azira Fell. I believe you were engaged to be my guide for the duration of my sojourn in Cairo.”

Crowley’s surprise was evident in the slight tightening of his grip.

“Ah, yes. The elusive Mr. Fell.”

“ _Doctor_ Fell,” Azira corrected. “And I am hardly the elusive one. My colleague and I have been searching for you unsuccessfully all day.”

“You seem to have found me now, _Doctor_ Fell,” Crowley said with a wry smile.

“Or you found me, rather,” Azira said, rubbing the back of his neck ruefully. “For which I am distinctly grateful.”

“You are staying at Shepheard’s, I believe?” Crowley said, gesturing for Azira to accompany him back in the direction of the hotel.

“I am,” Azira admitted without moving. “But I am rather famished after such a long day and was in search of food before being so rudely accosted. My colleague would be most disappointed if I returned without supper.”

Crowley gave an amused snort. “Someone’s just nearly cleaned your clock, and you still want to go out for nibbles?”

“I told you, I’m hungry.” At this, Azira’s stomach helpfully supplied a low growl.

Crowley laughed. “Far be it from me to stand between a man and the demands of his stomach.”

“A _doctor_ and the demands of his stomach,” Azira teased with a smile. He found he rather liked the sound of Crowley’s laugh.

“I humbly apologize for the unintended slight, Dr. Fell. Allow me to make it up to you by taking you to the best koshary place in town.”

Azira smiled regretfully. “That is very kind of you, but I’ve already been absent longer than I should. My colleague is as in need of sustenance as I am, I’m afraid.”

“S’no problem,” he said with a rakish smile. He pulled a scrap of paper and a pencil stub from his pocket, and jotted a quick note. “What’s your colleague’s name?”

“Anathema Device. Why?”

Crowley arched an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Azira said. “Family name.”

Crowley retrieved a coin from another pocket, and called to a small girl who happened to be passing. Speaking in low tones that Azira couldn’t hope to translate, Crowley handed her the note and the coin. The girl nodded and scampered back in the direction she’d come.

“What was that about?” Azira asked.

“I’ve sent her to my assistant with a note to bring food to…Ms?”

“Yes, Ms.”

“—Ms. Device. Leaving you free to join me for koshary and business. Shall we?”

“I…”

Azira dithered for a moment. The man had undeniable charisma, that was certain. But he was also somehow connected to Gabriel, which was a quality to be avoided at all costs. And yet…

Azira was curious about Crowley. He existed completely outside of Azira’s sphere of experience, as foreign as the country around them. Foreign...but...comforting. Like his laugh, which, though rough at first, held warmth and mystery at its core. And to be honest, Azira didn’t resist curiosity well at the best of times, let alone when he found himself in Egypt, the very air humming with everything he’d been curious about for most of his life.

“All right,” he said at last.

Crowley grinned in victory and hailed them a rickshaw, which Azira gratefully climbed into, his head and feet aching fiercely. Crowley climbed in next to him, slotting himself into the narrow space next to Azira with little deference to decorum.

Azira broke out in an immediate sweat, despite the rapidly cooling night air. He wasn’t used to such close proximity with other people. Especially people like Crowley. Intriguing people. Slightly out-of-his-league people, if he were honest. People who were the complete opposite of soft, retiring Azira.

Damn curiosity anyway. It only ever got him into trouble.

“Is it far, Mr. Crowley?” Azira asked, having to project his voice in the tight quarters to be heard over the sounds of the still bustling market.

“Just Crowley.”

“Pardon?”

“Just Crowley. No Mr.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“Azira, though,” Crowley said, scratching his cheek absently. “Another family name?”

“Angelic, actually,” Azira admitted and then instantly regretted it. Would Crowley think he was putting on airs? “That is— My mother is quite devout, you understand. She’s read all the known holy books, apocryphal as well as ecclesiastic, to the point where I’m not entirely certain she hasn’t written a few of them herself. She found the name—all our names, in fact—in various passages of scripture…” He trailed off awkwardly, wishing he’d just kept his mouth shut. The last thing he wanted was to sound as prideful as Gabriel.

“Relax, angel. I was only curious.”

Azira frowned. He didn’t care to be made fun of.

“It’s Dr. Fell, if you please.”

“Mmhm,” Crowley said and fell silent.

Relief flooded Azira when they arrived at their destination soon thereafter, and not just because he was that much closer to appeasing his hunger. But upon observing their immediate surroundings, Azira’s nerves returned in force, if for wholly different reasons.

“Where are we?” he asked his companion. He twisted in place, searching the buildings for anything resembling a restaurant. “This is a neighborhood. Where is the restaurant you mentioned?”

“You’re looking at it,” Crowley said, gesturing to the dwelling in front of them, a broad townhouse in the slightly dated architectural stylings of the Arts and Crafts movement.

“This is a restaurant?” Azira pressed, confused.

“All I said was the best koshary place in town. You assumed it was a restaurant.”

Crowley knocked on the wooden door. After a moment, it swung inward, framing a stylish, redheaded woman, heavily made up as if she were about to take the stage.

“Crowley, darling,” she said warmly, arms extended in welcome. Crowley leaned in and kissed her cheek.

“Madame Tracy,” he said with an equally warm smile.

“It’s been a minute, love,” she said with a slight scold to her tone. “Where have you been this time?”

“Oh, around. You know me.”

“Come in, come in.” Then she turned her attention to Azira. “And it appears you’ve brought a friend.”

“Tracy, this is _Dr_. Fell of Oxford, here on business. Figured he’d appreciate some of Dalila's famous koshary.”

“Of course. Welcome, Dr. Fell,” she said as she led them into the opulent foyer. “Washroom’s just there, if you want to freshen up.”

Azira took hasty advantage of the washroom she’d indicated, judging his tousled appearance in the mirror. Not good but not as bad as he’d feared. At least the bruise on his face was still light. Another day might be another matter, but for now, it wasn’t as noticeable as he’d thought.

As he turned off the water and wiped his face with the hand towel, he heard the quiet murmur of voices from the other side of the door. Ignoring a twinge of conscience, he leaned towards the crack between the door and jamb.

“…you think he knows...?”

But whatever else was said was lost in the background hum of the traffic outside. It was unlikely to have been about him anyway, Azira told himself, considering that neither had met him prior to this evening.

When Azira stepped out of the washroom, Tracy had gone and Crowley was leaning against the wall, reading a letter. Upon spying Azira, he quickly stuffed the letter in a pocket and gestured towards a nearby dining room.

It was a small room with only a few tables, and Azira noted the commonality among the tables instantly. At each was seated a well-to-do man with a scantily clad woman on his right or his left, or in some cases, both.

“Crowley…is this— is this a house of _ill repute?_ ” Azira hissed under his breath.

“I keep telling you, it is the best koshary place in town,” Crowley repeated. “And, yes, also a brothel.”

“Oh, good lord,” Azira said, glaring at his guide, but taking the proffered chair anyway. He was incredibly hungry, after all. “Gabriel would have a conniption if he saw this.”

Crowley shrugged and smirked.

“Speaking of,” Azira continued. “How exactly do you know my brother?”

“Your brother?”

“Gabriel Divine. The man who hired you to be my guide.”

“Divine?” Crowley asked, pronouncing the name as if unfamiliar with it. “If you’re brothers, why do you have different last names?”

Azira blushed, uncomfortable. He hated explaining in general, and explaining to strangers was worse.

“He’s my half-brother. Older.” Azira drank from the wine glass the hostess had just set at his right. “We share a mother.” And that was as far as he was prepared to go on the subject.

“Ah,” Crowley said, and to his credit, didn’t push. “Never heard of him.”

“But he told me—”

“I’m often hired through intermediaries,” Crowley said, pausing to drink from his own glass. “I’m not an easy man to get a hold of.”

“Well, what _do_ you know about me?” Azira asked, irritated.

“I know that I was to find you and help you establish relations with a network of antiquities dealers. Is…that not the case?”

Azira couldn’t help but notice the slight tightening of Crowley’s features as he asked this. Azira frowned. He wished Crowley would remove his dark glasses. They impeded Azira’s ability to read the man, and therefore, the entire situation. Did he really not know Gabriel or about the Foundation or about Azira at all? Or did he know far more than he was letting on?

“Would you mind removing your glasses?”

“Yes.”

Azira straightened, taken aback. “‘Yes’ as in you’ll remove your glasses, or ‘yes’ as in you mind?”

“‘Yes’ as in why don’t you tell me why you’re really in Cairo, and then we can worry about my glasses.”

Azira pressed his lips into an aggravated line. Crowley’d clearly been set in his path to block him rather than help him.

“The White Dove Foundation sent me to—”

“Bollocks.”

“I beg your pardon,” Azira said, affronted.

Crowley leaned forward, invading Azira’s personal space once again. “You’re interested in something much more valuable, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re implying,” Azira said. “I’m here to do what the Foundation sent me to do. That is all.”

Crowley leaned back again, slouching in his chair as if unconcerned. “I can’t help you find it, if you don’t tell me what it is.”

“I don’t need your help,” Azira snapped.

“Ha!” Crowley said, pounding the table with a fist. “I knew you weren’t here to trade. You’re not the type.”

“What type?”

“Beady-eyed, sweaty-palmed. The type that would trade in pieces of another country’s soul. You’re more the type who would get cornered in an alley by those people. The type that would put himself on the line to keep...” He stuttered to a stop, blushing the tiniest bit himself, so light and fast that Azira would have missed it if he weren’t paying close attention. “In any case, I was right. You aren’t here to trade.”

The ‘soul’ comment gave Azira pause. Who was this man? Why would he have volunteered to take the job as Azira’s guide if he found the antiquities trade distasteful?

Azira decided to play his cards carefully. If Crowley was half as well connected as both Gabriel and Newt portrayed him to be, he might know something helpful. Or he might be trying to draw Azira out on Gabriel’s orders. Azira may be naive, but he was not a complete idiot. Gabriel had more than trade on his mind when he’d sent Azira to Cairo.

“I absolutely am here to fulfill my obligations to the White Dove Foundation, and to my family,” he said, slowly and deliberately. “And I am here on my own errands, of course.” Gabriel knew as much himself, so if this conversation were repeated to him, it would not raise any red flags.

“And those errands are?”

“I am a researcher at Oxford. An Egyptologist. I am looking for…a scroll.”

“A scroll?” Crowley said. “What kind of scroll?”

“A scroll on the…the Macedonian spice route in the, er, Ptolemaic era.”

Crowley pursed his lips, clearly mulling this over.

“You sure you’re not here to plunder a tomb for gold and glory?”

“No, no. Just looking for a scroll from the Alexandrian library.”

“Ptolemaic era… Do you mean the library that _burned down?_ ” Crowley said with a laugh.

Azira was not amused. “I don’t see how the decimation of thousands of priceless documents is humorous, but by all means…”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said, sobering somewhat. “I only meant that it might be a bit difficult for you to find and identify a pile of ash from the first century BC.”

Azira rolled his eyes. “Not every scroll and vellum perished in the fire, you know. Only forty thousand or so that were being stored in a warehouse near the harbor. It is still a _travesty_ , of course, but no. The scroll I seek did not burn at Caesar’s hand.”

“How do you know it still exists?”

“We have it on good authority that its whereabouts were known as late as twenty years ago.” He saw no need to go into further detail with a guide he had no intention of employing beyond Cairo’s borders.

“’Whereabouts _were_ known?’” Crowley repeated. “So…not so much known now, then.”

Azira smiled. “What would be the fun in that, dear boy?”

Crowley returned the smile, firelight glinting off his glasses.

“Why do you wear your glasses indoors…and at night, for that matter?” Azira blurted before thinking better of it. Blasted curiosity again.

Crowley’s smile tightened slightly but didn’t fade. “The better to see without being seen.”

“Are you the big, bad wolf, then?”

“More like the big, bad snake, if I’m honest,” Crowley quipped in return, taking another sip of wine.

“Garter or cobra?”

“Constrictor.”

“Ah. That explains the whip.”

Crowley laughed, setting down the glass. “I suppose it would, if I actually carried one around. I just happened to have lifted that one from the slimy fellow that punched you. I dropped it on him after knocking him out.”

“You—” Azira snorted in disbelief. Every time he thought he had some sort of handle on Crowley, the man slithered out of his grasp. “Why would you abandon a perfectly serviceable weapon, especially to the benefit of a reprobate like him?”

“Serviceable?” Crowley scoffed. “Whips are unbearably slow and almost impossible to aim. If I hadn’t had the element of surprise, I’d’ve muffed it for sure.”

“But you hit his companion’s wrist perfectly.”

“I was aiming for his head.”

“Oh, dear,” Azira said, taking a bigger gulp of wine than was perhaps mannerly. He hadn’t appreciated how close he had come to death until just then.

Crowley leaned across the table with the wine bottle, refilling Azira’s glass without being asked. Azira shot him a small and fleeting smile of thanks.

“Listen, I can tell you’re trying to distract me from this scroll business.” He raised his hands as Azira sputtered a protest. “It’s fine. Your business is yours. Why anyone would be interested enough in spice routes to travel all the way to the arse end of the world for a single scroll about them is beyond me, but I’m not paid to question why, et cetera.”

“It’s quite a separate task from the one you’ve been hired for, and therefore nothing to concern yourself about.”

“I was hired to assist you in whatever way you require while you are in Egypt,” Crowley corrected. “If that extends to helping locate a lost scroll of whatever, then I am at your service.”

Azira hmphed into his wine glass. Crowley was going to be more of a nuisance than he’d originally bargained for. Though, he couldn’t deny that a small, mutinous part of him was quite inappropriately pleased by this qualification. Really, the very last thing he needed was a nanny loyal to Gabriel dogging his every step. But a Crowley-shaped nanny, he had to admit, would at least improve the view.

The koshary arrived then, and, true to Crowley’s word, it was the most delicious dish Azira had ever eaten. He couldn’t help but moan after the first mouthful reached his tongue. His eyes fluttered closed, all thought of the scroll, and the assault, and even his dining companion, obliterated by the rich burst of flavor coating his palette.

After a moment of savoring the coriander and garlic, Azira opened his eyes to share in the experience with Crowley, only to see that the man hadn’t touched his meal.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Azira asked as he patted his lips with a napkin. “It’s positively scrumptious. You should try it.”

“Ngk,” Crowley answered mysteriously.

Azira took another bite, equally as elated as he was by the first, and wished again that Crowley would remove his dark glasses. They continued to be a hindrance to Azira’s ability to read the man, and it was starting to make him irritable.

What kind of a reaction was “ngk” anyway? Azira might never know. And as he continued to eat his koshary, slathering spoonfuls of the sauce on the curious flatbread that accompanied the meal, while Crowley seemed disinclined to even touch his, Azira became increasingly puzzled by the man’s sudden reticence. Why bother ordering for himself if he wasn’t planning on eating any?

“Though I am hardly an expert, my dear,” Azira said after nearly finishing his portion. “I can easily see how this would be the best koshary in Cairo.”

Crowley cleared his throat but didn’t otherwise respond. He seemed to be staring at Azira, but again, it was too difficult to tell through the dark lenses blockading his gaze.

Azira opened his mouth to revisit the subject of Crowley removing them when the door to the brothel slammed open and a harried Newt rushed over to their table. He leaned over to whisper urgently in Crowley’s ear.

“Is something amiss?” Azira asked.

Crowley stood, fishing his wallet out of his pocket, and leaving a stack of notes on their table.

“Sorry, angel, time to go. Seems as though your assistant’s thief has made a reappearance.”

“Good lord,” Azira said, jumping up as well. “Is Anathema all right?”

“She’s fine,” Newt said. “But the thief got what he came for.”

“Which was?”

“A book of some kind. A journal.”

Azira gasped and grabbed the back of the chair he’d just left, suffering a renewed sense of vertigo. If the thief had managed to steal the book—had, indeed, been after the book in the first place—did it mean that someone knew the truth?

“Oh, dear,” he said, feeling faint.

Crowley took his elbow once again and led him out of the dining room the way they’d come in, giving a curt nod to Tracy as they passed her.

“Well, Dr. Fell...” Crowley said, as he pushed open the door. “Welcome to Cairo.”


	4. Cloves and Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azira checks on Anathema while Crowley investigates.

_Shepheard’s Hotel, Cairo_

“Anathema, my dear, are you quite alright?” Azira asked for the fifth time as he handed her the tea the porter had brought up, and sat next to her on the bed. 

“I’m _fine_ , Dr. Fell,” she said, though her disheveled appearance and morose expression belied her words. “The room has seen better days, though.”

She was unfortunately right about the room. The gauzy curtains were strewn over the floor. The dresser drawers had been pulled out and emptied. Even the cushions on the chairs in the small reading nook had been yanked off the furniture and flung about.

“Goodness, what a mess,” Azira said.

Anathema looked a trifle contrite as she said, “I lost it a bit when I couldn’t find the book.”

Crowley sauntered in, Newt in tow, already surveying the remains.

“I’d just gone down the hall to take a bath, and I left my bag in the room. I didn’t want the book to get wet. It hadn’t even occurred to me that someone would break in and steal it. I’m so sorry, Dr. Fell.”

“Oh, my dear,” Azira said, clasping one of her hands in both of his. “I’m just glad that you are safe and unhurt.”

Anathema frowned, looking at his own face more closely. “It appears I’m not the only one who had a brush with disaster. How did you get that bruise on your face?”

“Er, long story, I’m afraid,” Azira said, moving to the side to bring her attention to Crowley. “Anathema, this is Anthony Crowley. Crowley, Anathema Device.”

“Pleasure,” Crowley said in a clipped tone, shaking her hand and then wandering away again to inspect the rest of the room.

“What are you looking for?” Azira asked him.

“Clues relating to the thief, obviously,” Crowley said. 

“Ah,” Azira answered. “Find anything?”

Crowley arched an eyebrow at him. “Not yet.”

“We can’t…without the book…” Anathema said to Azira in a hushed voice. “How will we—?”

“Don’t distress yourself, dear,” Azira interrupted, glancing at Crowley to see how much he’d overheard. Likely all of it, more’s the pity. The last thing he needed was Crowley—and by extension, Gabriel—interfering in his and Anathema’s search for the scroll.

Speaking of, it was about time he saw their guests to the door so he and Anathema could plan their next steps. He squeezed Anathema’s hand as he got to his feet and picked his way through the room’s detritus to where Crowley was bending to study the baseboards just below the window casement.

“You’re sure you saw no sign of the intruder or anyone suspicious in the hallway?” Crowley asked Anathema before Azira had a chance to speak.

“No. There was no one in the hall when I left my room nor when I came back,” Anathema answered unhappily.

Crowley straightened, examining his fingertips as he did so. He moved closer to Azira and lowered his voice.

“Kretek,” he said, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.

“Come again?” Azira said.

“Clove cigarettes,” Crowley explained, showing Azira the bits of brown leaf between his fingers. “Just here beneath the window. I take it Ms. Device does not indulge?”

“In tobacco? I don’t believe so.”

“Uh, hello. I’m right here. And no, I don’t,” Anathema said from where she had begun picking up cushions and rehanging curtains.

Crowley lifted his fingers toward Azira’s nose. Azira obliged by leaning forward to take a sniff, and a familiar scent whisked him back several hours to a darkened alley and a regrettable encounter.

“Recognize it?” Crowley asked.

“My attacker,” Azira whispered so Anathema wouldn’t hear. “In the alley.”

Crowley nodded, pulling his fingers away from Azira’s face and leaving a waft of cold air and a strange, small loneliness in their place. Azira dismissed the inappropriate thought completely. He knew better than to even consider letting it see the light of day.

“We don’t know for certain, of course,” Crowley said, wiping his fingers on his trousers. “But Kreteks are fairly unusual in this part of the world. It’d be an awfully big coincidence.”

Azira bit his lip, worried. He was fairly sure they weren’t in immediate danger—clearly, the scoundrels had got what they wanted—but he felt quite utterly out of his depth. He hadn’t the least idea where to begin hunting for them.

Well, first things first. He needed to remove Crowley and Newt from the equation.

“I appreciate your assistance, Crowley. Yours and Newt’s, of course,” Azira said, stepping back to include Newt and Anathema in the conversation. “But I think Anathema and I can take things from here.”

Crowley answered with a half-chuckle of surprise. “Oh, you do, do you?”

Azira drew himself up. “Yes, rather. We cannot solve the mystery tonight in any case, so thank you for all you’ve done, and I’ll be in touch when we are ready to begin connecting with traders.”

Crowley’s amused smile grew.

“Newt,” he said, snapping his fingers and giving the young man a meaningful look.

“On it, boss,” Newt said as he darted out of the room.

Crowley turned his attention back to Azira. “As long as you are in Egypt, angel, you are under my protection.”

“That is not— That was never my understanding of our arrangement. You have been hired to perform a specific task—"

“I don’t give a monkey's what your _understanding_ was. You are under my protection for the duration of your stay in Egypt.”

Azira opened his mouth to protest again.

“ _All_ of Egypt,” Crowley interrupted, as if anticipating his objection. “Not just within city limits. And now that you have not only been attacked in an alley—"

“What?” Anathema squawked from where she stood next to the bed.

“—But also forcibly robbed, not once but twice,” Crowley continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “I will be recalibrating my approach to those duties. Where you go, I go, angel. Until we sort all this out. And you will tell me everything.”

“Hardly,” Azira muttered under his breath, resentful of Crowley’s overbearing tone.

Crowley drew closer, his glass-obscured gaze piercing straight through the professor. “I’m serious, Azira.”

Azira stopped breathing, mesmerized by Crowley’s intense focus on him. It was like staring directly into the sun. He didn’t resume breathing until Newt rejoined them, barging past the door, key in hand.

“Booked the room next-door,” Newt said, tilting his head to indicate the room to the right of Anathema’s.

“Brilliant,” Crowley said, easing up on whatever force he’d been exerting on Azira. “Where’s yours, angel?”

“Just down the hall,” Azira said hoarsely, then quickly cleared his throat.

“Shall we?” Crowley said as he walked out into the hallway.

Azira started to follow, still somewhat befuddled with conflicting emotions—push back or give in? He shouldn’t involve Crowley for a whole host of reasons. But if Crowley wouldn’t leave of his own accord, then Azira couldn’t really make him without running afoul of Gabriel, which was the absolute last thing he needed at the moment, or at any moment, really. He’d just have to play at the margins of the truth until Crowley was satisfied and went away. 

Anathema grabbed his hand as he passed her. “Are you sure we can trust him?”

“No,” Azira answered truthfully. “But I’m afraid we don’t have much choice right now. We’ll reconvene in the morning and decide our best course of action. For now, get some rest, if you can.” Then, after an awkward hand pat, he followed Crowley into the hallway.

Yielding the lead, Crowley kept a quiet half-pace behind Azira as they headed down the hall towards Azira’s room. Upon reaching the door, Azira took out his key and fit it into the lock, turning it with a click.

“You can, you know,” Crowley said softly just behind his left ear.

“I can what?” Azira asked.

“Trust me,” Crowley answered as he gently pushed open the door into the darkened room. He flipped the light switch and looked around the small room, taking care to check the tiny balcony just beyond the French doors.

“Coast is clear, angel,” he said coming back into the room. “Have a seat. Time to tell me what’s really going on.”

Azira frowned, doffing his hat and hanging it on a hook behind the door. He ruffled his white curls with his fingers, wincing as he hit the sore spot where his head had struck the cobblestones.

“Lemme see,” Crowley said, circling around Azira and pulling his hand away. Only when Azira saw the flecks of red on his fingers did he realize he’d been bleeding. 

“Don’t trouble yourself. It’s not enough to be dangerous. Just a trickle, really, and mostly dried.”

But Crowley was not deterred. He carefully sifted through Azira’s hair until he found the injury. 

“There’s a good-sized knot here, actually, which could do with a bit of ice. Hang on, I’ll call up for some. But when I get back, it’s confession time for you.” 

“I don’t need any…” Azira started to protest, but Crowley was already gone.

Azira barely had time for a disgruntled sigh before Crowley was back again, towel of ice in hand.

“Really, that was quite unnecessary,” Azira began just as Crowley applied the towel to the back of Azira’s head.

“Here, hold this. Takes the swelling down.”

Azira glared at him even as he obeyed the direction. “I do know how ice works. I have several doctoral degrees, you know.”

Crowley grinned. “Oh, really? Any of them in head-injury care? No?”

Azira sighed again, barely refraining from rolling his eyes.

“Now,” Crowley continued, stepping back. “I figure we start with the latest incident and work our way backwards, shall we? What is this book someone was so hot to steal?”

Azira sat on the edge of the bed as Crowley leaned against the wall opposite, shutting the door with a casual gesture.

“The book is a journal. Anathema’s mother’s journal.”

“And why would somebody want to steal it?”

“I don’t know,” Azira lied.

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “I can tell you’re lying, you know. You have this thing you do with your eyes when you lie. Gives it dead away. So why don’t we try again? Why would someone want to steal it? What’s special about it?”

Azira glared at him again. The man was infuriating.

“How do I know?” Azira asked.

“How do you know what? Why it’s special? That’s what you’re meant to be telling me.”

“No. How do I know I can trust you? I’m just supposed to take your word for it?”

Crowley chewed on the question for a moment before responding. “Well, why _not_ take my word for it? I did save your life. And I bought you dinner. And I’ve done nothing to make you _not_ trust me, have I?”

“I _am_ grateful for the rescue,” Azira said with a sigh. “And the food, obviously. But I can’t just trust you. Not with this.”

Crowley sighed heavily, letting his head fall back against the wall with a thump. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“I understand that, which is why I’m not asking for your help.”

“Well, that’s just bloody idiotic. How could someone as clever as you be so stupid? You don’t know the city, you don’t have any contacts here beyond me that you could turn to for help. It’s like you’re painting a big, red target on your back and asking to be shot.”

Azira pressed his lips together to keep from blurting the truth. That he wanted to trust the man, he really did, but he couldn’t help the sinking sensation that he was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. If Crowley wasn’t trustworthy, he could leak critical information straight to Gabriel, or some even worse entity. If he was trustworthy, then involving him would put him, and Newt, in as much danger as Azira. And Azira already felt bad enough about risking Anathema.

“Fine,” Crowley grumbled at last. “What _can_ you trust me with? Start there.”

“The journal belonged to Anathema’s mother, who was an Egyptologist of some renown. The book is one of a kind, and valuable because of it, but only to the most ardent of history-obsessed intellectuals. Only a handful of people in the world even know of its existence.”

“Excellent,” Crowley said. “I’ll need a list of those history-obsessed intellectuals.”

Azira paused, lowering the ice bundle to his lap. He had to try once more to dissuade Crowley from involving himself. It wasn’t just fear of Gabriel, or other such dangers. Azira could feel another kind of danger growing in the places inside himself he tried hard not to look at for long. His inappropriate…regard…for Crowley was only growing the longer the man was in his company. He didn’t need that kind of hurt in his life again, especially not now. Not when he was so bound up in such a dangerous mission. 

“Look, Crowley, I appreciate all you’ve done, and all you are clearly willing to do to help someone you barely know. You are such a-a _nice_ person—”

“Nice? I’m not nice! Nice is a four-letter w—”

“Please, let me finish,” Azira interrupted, setting the ice aside and twisting his hands together nervously. “I appreciate your help, and I realize, as you observed, that I do _need_ your, or at least somebody’s, help.”

“You—”

Azira held up a hand, forestalling Crowley once again. “But you must understand, I cannot allow you to put yourself in any more danger through association with me than you already have. I cannot be responsible for something dreadful happening to you—”

“Now, wait just a—”

“I cannot, because it would...” Azira stopped.

 _Because it would ruin me_ . That's what he'd wanted to say. No, not _wanted_ to say. Almost _instinctively_ said. He knew his own proclivity for dissembling, a skill he’d long since perfected in order to survive his family. But _that_ truth—oh, that rang out far too clearly for his liking.

Yet, how could that _be_? He’d only met the man a few hours ago. It was beyond ridiculous to have any feelings at all at this point. Not to mention the prospect of how Crowley would react to such an inappropriate assertion. No, Azira would never allow himself to finish that sentence.

So of course, Crowley prompted, “Would _what_ , angel?”

Azira straightened his spine, forcing his hands to stillness.

“I do not wish to see you hurt,” he said. “That is all.”

“And you think I enjoyed seeing you with your head bashed in?”

Azira frowned at his aggravated tone. “Of course not. Obviously, no one wants to see another person hurt. I just mean… Oh, never mind.”

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up an inch. Azira could just make out a sliver of closed eyelid from this distance, a fine brush of lashes fanned against tanned skin. No iris, though, not even a sliver of white.

Crowley settled the glasses back firmly in place and crossed his arms, his expression forbidding.

“Am I right in assuming that if I were to bugger off, you and the girl would do whatever it took to find this journal again? That you’d leave no rock unturned, even if scorpions were hiding beneath it?”

“Yes,” Azira breathed. “I’m afraid we must.”

“Then we’re wasting time arguing about this. Valuable time, I might add, in which whomever has the book is getting a longer head start. Nothing you can say will convince me to just let you go off and get yourselves killed. So how about we skip to the part where you give me the names, and we try to find the pillock who stole your book?”

“Alright,” Azira said, caving at last. He wouldn’t tell Crowley more than he already had, but he clearly couldn’t push him away. At least, not now. He and Anathema might yet be able to give Crowley the slip later, when the need arose. Besides, the guide’s connections in Cairo could prove helpful, if the person who took the book was one of the history aficionados Azira had referenced earlier.

Azira took out his notebook and jotted down the names of the people he knew who had expressed interest in Agnes’s journal. Then he tore the page out and handed it to Crowley.

“See how easy that was?” Crowley said, examining the names and then tucking the paper into his shirt pocket. “Imagine if all our interactions were that simple. We might even get somewhere.”

“Oh, good lord,” Azira said. “I was only trying to protect you.”

“Contrary to popular belief, I can take care of myself. And a few stragglers besides.”

Azira snorted and picked up the ice again, placing it on the back of his head. It _did_ feel rather soothing. As did failing to scare Crowley off. Azira knew it was a bad idea—for so, so many reasons—to let Crowley barge his way into this. But Azira’s witless heart still skipped at the prospect of seeing more of his would-be rescuer.

“Now, I’ve a few errands to run. Newt will stay in the room next to Book Girl’s and periodically check on you both. If you run into any trouble or need anything, go to him and no one else. We know who to trust here and who not. Understand?”

“What errands are you running?”

“Bit of this, bit of that. I’ll be asking around, discreetly, about these names you gave me. With any luck, I’ll have more of a direction by morning.”

Crowley pushed away from the wall, paused in front of Azira as if unsure of how to say goodbye, and then without a word turned towards the door. When Crowley’s fingers closed around the knob, Azira found his voice.

“Crowley,” he said before thinking better of it. “Take care. These people are… well, they have nearly unlimited resources. And I’m not certain their morality is entirely aboveboard.”

Crowley grinned wickedly. “My kind of people, then. Get some rest. We’ll most likely be on the hunt in the morning.”

Azira nodded, and Crowley left with a whisper of wind. The door clicked into place behind him, and it was the most alone Azira had ever felt. He sank backwards into the pillows on the bed. 

This was definitely going to be a problem.


	5. Trains and Planes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azira hatches a plot to ditch Crowley, which doesn't work out so well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, heaps of thanks for my WONDERFUL beta, Z A Dusk. Go read their [fic!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/works) They're amazing!!

Early the next morning, Azira and Anathema were sitting at a bistro table on the hotel restaurant’s patio, sipping tea and endeavoring, with little success, to speak in code.

“Beautiful day for a picnic,” Azira began, eyeing the bright, thinly overcast sky. “Doesn’t look much for rain.”

Anathema frowned, clearly attempting to interpret his true meaning. At least she knew enough to try. Newt, meanwhile, was sitting at the next table, amiably reading a book.

“True,” she said, finally. “Too bad we didn’t bring a basket.”

Ah! Perhaps she was catching on.

“Do you remember that department luncheon in Kensington? We were soaked to the bone.”

“Yes. Retirement party, wasn’t it? For the dean?”

Er… Maybe not. “No, no, not the dean. The provost. Don’t you remember, dear?”

“This is ridiculous,” Anathema grumbled. “Newt!”

The young man’s head popped up from behind the novel he was reading. “Yes?”

She fished a few coins from her bag and handed them to him. “Would you go buy us the latest copy of the  _ Oxford Times _ , please? I’m dying for news of home.”

“Uh…I’m sure the hotel has the _ London Times _ , if you—”

“I need the  _ Oxford Times _ .”

Newt hovered, coins resting in his palm. “But Crowley told me not to leave.”

“I need that paper. Does Crowley really dictate every single decision you make?” Anathema said, batting her eyelashes at him sarcastically.

“Well, he  _ is _ my--”

“Newt.”

“Alright,” Newt said, holding up his hands in surrender as he made to leave. “There’s a stand just around the corner. I won’t be long.”

“We’ll be here,” she said, a saccharine smile on her face as she watched him go. The moment Newt was out of earshot, Anathema turned back to Azira. “Why are we trusting them? We don’t know them. They could have orchestrated the whole thing. They could have my mother’s journal in their possession as we speak!”

“I don’t believe they do,” Azira said, then held his hand up to ward off her protest. “I know what you’re going to say, my dear. But I haven’t told him anything of import, not really. Just some names of armchair Egyptologists with more wealth than sense, who may have had knowledge of your mother’s contribution to the field. It does us no harm for him to ferret out what he can about them. They may be responsible for the theft, after all.”

“I suppose you could be right. But the likelihood isn’t great that any of them know about the journal’s connection to the you-know-what.”

“Nevertheless, it’s keeping Crowley busy while we come up with a plan.”Azira leaned closer to Anathema, lowering his voice. “Now. I believe you and I should board the train for Alexandria straight away. I asked the concierge, and it appears the first train bound for Alexandria leaves at half past. We can sneak away before—”

“Oh, come now, angel. You call that a plan?”

Azira jumped nearly a mile at the silky voice so near his ear. How had he not noticed Crowley’s return?

“Why, there’s hardly any cloak-and-dagger about it at all,” the man continued, with a wicked smile that made Azira’s stomach flip.

“You startled me,” Azira accused with a guilty frown.

“Well, forgive me. I certainly didn’t mean to  _ startle _ you, Dr. Fell,” Crowley said as he circled the table to Azira’s other side.

Azira winced at the mocking use of his title, which seemed more an accusation than a gesture of respect. He drew himself up in his seat. He hadn’t asked for Crowley’s protection. He didn’t owe the man anything … even if his heart did twinge a little at the thought of Crowley finally accepting his wishes and leaving them.

“It’s nothing personal, Crowley,” Azira said, pushing his plate a few inches away from him. “In light of last night’s events, Anathema and I need to move quickly.”

“I’m sorry, and in what direction did you think you’d be moving, exactly? I thought the entire purpose of me shaking the trees last night, digging up rumors for leads was to  _ find _ a direction.”

Azira pressed his lips together, meeting Crowley’s glare with what he hoped was a steely expression.

Crowley practically hovered over Azira as he said, “You don’t know this about me yet, but I  _ really _ hate repeating myself.” The man’s consonants had taken on a hint of sibilance, lending a certain credence to his big-bad-snake self-characterization at the previous night’s dinner. “So I will say this one more time, and that is all. While you are in Egypt, I go where you go or you stay where I put you. Is that perfectly clear?”

Azira inhaled deeply through his nose, eyes narrowing.

“Oh, for pete’s sake,” Anathema said. “Just tell him already.”

Azira blinked at her in surprise. “But…we agreed…”

She crossed her arms, looking vexed. “Cat’s out of the bag about Alexandria anyway.”

Azira gaped at her. She couldn’t mean for him to tell Crowley everything. Azira was simply not relating anything about the scroll to anybody unless he had to, and that was an end to it. But she was right about Alexandria - now that Crowley knew, he’d probably just follow them there anyway. 

“Fine,” Azira said with a sigh. “We need to go to Alexandria. Our train leaves at half past ten.”

Crowley pursed his lips, considering this. “So the whole list of suspects was a wild goose chase, was it?”

“Not entirely,” Azira admitted, absently exploring the bump on the back of his head with his fingers. The wound was better this morning, but it still ached. “Any of the people I listed could have been responsible for the theft. They knew of Agnes’s work.”

“But the whole point of me investigating these people was to find out where to go next. Something, it turns out you already knew.”

“We didn’t know, okay?” Anathema jumped in, just as Newt returned with her newspaper. 

Newt opened his mouth to say something but three pairs of angry eyes turned to glare at him. He changed his mind and sat without speaking, folding the newspaper in his lap.

“We didn’t know where to go,” Azira clarified. “But we suspected.”

Crowley suddenly perked up.

“This is about the scroll, isn’t it?” he deduced, smacking the table in triumph.

“What scroll?” Azira’s cheeks heated. He hated lying as a general rule, and he particularly hated lying when he felt guilty about it.

“The spice routes scroll,” Crowley said, obviously pleased with himself over the discovery. “They never wanted the journal. Just what the journal could tell them about the scroll.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Azira hedged. “The scroll I told you about is valuable only for research purposes. It has nothing to do with—”

“Your eyes are doing that thing again, angel. You really should work on that,” Crowley said, leaning over Azira again with his hand on the back of Azira’s chair. “And anyway, why else would you be going to Alexandria?”

Azira glared up at Crowley, twisting awkwardly to do so. 

“There are lots of reas—”

“Because the scroll you are looking for was a part of the ancient Alexandrian library. You told me so yourself.”

“Yes, but there are countless ancient artefacts in Alexandria,” Azira said, picking up his teacup and hiding behind a nonchalant sip. “And who says the thieves aren’t intending to simply sell the book? They could be opportunists, rather than treasure hunters.”

Crowley smiled but not with pleasure. “Nice try, angel. The truth is, you don’t know who took the book, but you  _ do _ know where they’re headed. And you want to beat them there.”

“Maybe I do,” Azira admitted haughtily.

“And then what? What will you do? Read them to death?”

Now, that was offensive.

“Hang on just a minute,” Azira said, pushing himself to his feet and squaring off with Crowley. “I’ll have you know, I won the heavy-weight title for my division two years running in my college days.”

Crowley straightened as Azira stood, backing a pace to give him room. 

“And you didn’t clobber those guys in the alley because…?”

“Well, I was taken by surprise. How was I to know the rapscallions would attack me in the middle of a crowded market?”

“Did—did you just say ‘rapscallions’?” Crowley said, cracking a teasing smile.

Azira scowled at Crowley, quite forgetting anyone else was even present. 

“The  _ point _ is that I’m not a ball of fluff to be knocked about by a stiff wind. Now that I know we are targets, I am more on guard.”

“Is that so?” Crowley said, closing the distance and stopping a mere inch from Azira’s nose.

“Yes. It is.” Azira adjusted his stance, sizing up his opponent in the event Crowley chose to test him.

“Hey! Small and annoying children! How is any of this bickering getting us closer to my mother’s book?”

Azira blinked, deflating as he remembered Anathema and Newt—and, apparently, half the city street—were watching.

Anathema scoffed at them both as she gathered her things and stood up. “We are—all of us—going to the train station now. We can decide who is beating who into a bloody pulp after we’re on board.” Then she brushed between them, bristling like a cat and grabbing Newt to pull him along by the arm. “ _ Men _ ,” she muttered.

Sheepishly, Azira turned back to Crowley, ready to apologize, but Crowley circumvented him.

“Well, angel,” he said, watching as Anathema stormed off to hail a cab. “I guess now we know who’d actually win in a fight.”

Then he set off after Anathema, leaving Azira to trail behind.

~oOoOo~

_ Ramses Station, Cairo _

Azira couldn’t help but gawk like a tourist as he passed the Nahdat Misr sculpture, already famous despite its relative infancy to Egypt’s other wonders. It was less than a decade old but nearly as breathtaking as the pyramids themselves. The train station behind it, barely thirty years old, was a hotchpotch of neo-Mamluk style, industrial-age engineering, and art-deco accents. The cacophonous mix of elements somehow created a unique and cohesive whole, which was perhaps a fitting metaphor for Egypt itself.

“Stop dithering, angel. Do you want the train to leave without us?”

Azira hurried forward, then immediately slowed his pace upon realizing his instinctive reaction. Crowly’s tone reminded him of Gabriel’s ordering him about all his life, expecting to be obeyed simply because he was older…well, and handsomer, and better liked by both children and adults than odd-duck Azira. 

Perhaps Azira hadn’t any choice in how he was allowed to act around his family, but he owed no such allegiance to Crowley. And truthfully, he wanted to be different here. More in charge of his actions and his own path. He wouldn’t allow himself to cave so easily to a Gabriel stand-in.

“Four to Alexandria.“

Dash it all, how had Crowley gotten to the ticket window so fast?

“ _ Two _ to Alexandria,” Azira huffed as he budged in next to Crowley. “He means two tickets only.”

Crowley casually hooked his elbow against the ledge and leaned against it in a precarious way that would have had most people toppling to the floor. Did the man have no skeleton? Seriously.

“Changed your mind, have you?” Crowley drawled.

“No, no. But I insist on purchasing my own tickets, for myself and my assistant.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow at him over the rim of his dark glasses. “It all springs from the same source, doesn’t it? Your brother’s foundation?”

“It’s my  _ family’s _ foundation,” Azira corrected. “And regardless, I would prefer to care for my own expenses, if you please.”

“No skin off my nose,” Crowley said, shrugging.

Azira pulled out his wallet while Crowley wandered off to join Newt and Anathema, who were examining the train schedule.

“How much for a sleeping compartment?” Azira asked.

The ticket cashier looked at him quizzically.

“It’s only a three-hour trip, sir,” he said in crisp, accented English.

“I should like one all the same, thank you.”

“Of course. That will be thirty-two piastres.”

Azira handed over the coin with a quick thank-you, pocketing the tickets. As he turned to rejoin his motley crew of adventurers, he caught a glimpse of tousled, straw-colored hair out of the corner of his eye. Azira whirled to catch a better look, but whoever it was had disappeared into the crowd milling at the other end of the platform. 

“All set there, angel?” Crowley called.

Annoyed at the guide’s teasing tone, Azira didn’t bother replying. But he didn’t give chase after the mysterious blonde either. It was probably nothing. One glimpse of pale hair didn’t automatically mean Hastur had tailed them, for goodness’ sake.

At nearly half past the hour, their train finally rolled into the station, braking with an ear-splitting hiss. Its passengers disembarked with various levels of haste. Most seemed content to move at a pace so leisurely that Azira nearly chivvied complete strangers out of his way so that he and Anathema could board.

“Take it easy, angel. Alexandria isn’t going anywhere,” Crowley said.

“Alexandria may not, but our quarry is. I cannot express how important it is that we intercept them before they…” Azira trailed off into silence as he realized what he’d almost given away.

Crowley sighed impatiently. “Why can’t you just  _ tell _ me?”

Azira bit his lip to hold back all the reasons that flooded forward.  _ Because I don’t know you. Because it’s too important, too dangerous. Because I  _ want _ to, and that scares me. _

“Dr. Fell!” Anathema called from across the platform. “They’re letting us board!”

Azira snapped back to the present with startling clarity. He’d been staring at Crowley for too long as he’d struggled with how to respond. A flush heated his cheeks, and he dropped his gaze, turning away. 

As he hurried towards Anathema and Newt, he berated himself. What was he  _ doing _ ? As if trailing a cadre of villains to a potentially fatal confrontation wasn’t hazardous enough, he was developing an inappropriate attraction to a man who could easily turn him over to the authorities for indecency, or pulverize him into the sand. Either of which would abruptly and ignominiously end his mission. 

Where had his self-control gone? He usually stuffed such feelings so deep inside himself that no one was ever the wiser, or at least, no one could prove it. ‘No one’ usually meaning Gabriel. After what had happened with James, Azira automatically rejected any such impulses. What was it about Crowley that so thoroughly shelled him of all his defenses?

The four boarded the train as the warning whistle blew. They hadn’t much in the way of luggage among them. Crowley appeared to travel with a shoulder-strap satchel and not much else. Newt carried a larger rucksack and a worn carpet bag with a broken handle. Azira and Anathema had intentionally packed light for the trip.

It so happened they’d entered the passenger car with the sleeping compartments, so Newt and Crowley escorted Azira and Anathema to their seats before continuing onto the next car. But before parting ways, Crowley pulled Azira aside.

“After the conductor takes our tickets, Newt and I will head to the dining car. I expect to see you there as well.”

Crowley obviously thought Azira had bought tickets in a separate car so he could more easily give Crowley the slip, which wasn’t actually the case. Azira had finally accepted the reality that he wasn’t getting rid of Crowley that easily. But before he could assure Crowley that he had no plans for escape, at least not at present, Crowley spoke again.

“Once more for the record, angel. It would be a regrettable waste of my considerable fee for you to take any further action without consulting me first. I am the guide for a  _ reason _ . I know Egypt. The modern version. It’s not the same as it was six thousand years ago. Ignoring that fact puts you at risk and puts your objective, whatever that may be, at risk, as well.”

“I understand,” Azira said, forcing himself to meet Crowley’s veiled gaze. “I’ll meet you in the dining car at noon.”

“Good,” Crowley said. Then he shuffled past Azira in the narrow corridor to join Newt, who was standing beside Anathema. “See you at lunch, Book Girl,” he said to Anathema with a tip of his hat. Then he and Newt left through the vestibule to the adjoining car.

As Azira and Anathema entered their compartment, Anathema turned to Azira with an air of curiosity.

“Book Girl, I get. But why does he call you ‘angel’?”

“Oh, it’s just a joke he’s having at my expense,” Azira said, stowing his bag above his seat. “Pay it no mind.”

Anathema looked doubtful, but she dropped the subject.

“What have you told him about the scroll?” she asked as Azira double-checked that the door to their compartment was both latched and locked.

“I relayed our usual cover story that the scroll describes Macedonian spice routes of the Ptolemaic period.”

“Then how did he jump to the conclusion that the journal and the scroll were connected?”

“He just guessed, dear.”

“Well, I suppose we could tell them the rest at this point. Would it really do that much harm?”

“It isn’t wise to involve them, as you yourself pointed out naught but a few hours ago.”

“I know, but it is tempting. We could use the help.”

Azira watched the flat countryside slip past the windows. Women kneeled in the fields, working, while water buffalo and camels congregated near them. There were more trees and greenery than Azira expected—tangerine, olive, pepper, coconut, oleander, and, of course, palms. But the landscape, as beautiful as it was, could hold his attention for only so long. His anxiety about what lay ahead thrummed under his ribcage like a tiny bird, screeching in alarm.

“What do you think the thieves mean to do with the journal?” Anathema asked finally. “Do you think they intend to sell it?”

“I don’t believe we’re that lucky, my dear. We have to assume they know it will lead them to the scroll.”

“The Apocalypse Scroll,” she breathed, her chin resting in her hand as she gazed through the window. “How did they even find out about it?”

“Likely, the same way your mother and I did.” 

“The Lyre Abbey letter?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think they’ll be able to decode the journal and determine the location?”

“I’m not certain, but—”

Azira stopped suddenly as a flash of hay-bale hair passed his peripheral vision. He was up like a shot and fumbling to get the compartment door open as Anathema stared at him.

“What is it?” she said, jumping to her feet as well.

“Hastur! He must have overheard us talking about the code. We can’t let—”

Azira shoved the door open at last and bolted without finishing his sentence, hat sailing off behind him. 

“Dr. Fell!” Anathema yelled as she followed him out. “Who is Hastur?”

“Miscreant who hit me,” Azira called back over his shoulder as he muscled his way through the vestibule into the next car. “He might have the journal!”

Azira scanned the rows of half-empty seats despairingly, with no sign of his quarry. He was about to ask a matron in a purple hat if she’d seen a man run by, when the man in question ducked out from behind a seat at the far end of the car and vanished into the vestibule beyond it. Azira took off after him at a run.

He stumbled to a stop when he reached the far vestibule, as he saw that Hastur had flung open the exterior door and climbed out onto the moving train. Azira hesitated for a mere split second before moving to do the same.

“Don’t you dare!” Anathema shrieked, grabbing him by the wrist. “Don’t even think about it, Dr. Fell!”

“It may be our only chance to catch them!” he yelled back over the clang of the iron wheels. Then he yanked his wrist from her grasp and clutched the door, searching frantically for the handholds Hastur had used.

Anathema cursed at him and sprinted into the next train car, perhaps to try and catch the man if he re-entered the train further down.

Azira swallowed hard as he grasped the horizontal brass railing just above the windows. The sills themselves provided an inch or two of purchase for his feet. He’d need to be exceedingly careful. One slip and he’d fall to a swift yet painful death along the track. 

He stepped out onto the narrow ledge of the first sill, holding his breath and miraculously not falling. He prayed a silent litany of thanks and pleas for continued intercession as he crept along the edge to the middle of the car, where a metal runged ladder led to the roof. He could just make out the shape of Hastur’s back as he clung to the top of the car further towards the engine. If Azira could just reach the ladder, he might have a chance to—

“What the bloody  _ hell _ do you think you’re doing?” 

_ Crowley.  _ Dash it all, Anathema must have told him.

“I’m chasing Hastur! Obviously!” Azira yelled back.

“Get back here, you maniac!”

Azira ignored him. If anything, Crowley’s interference only strengthened Azira’s resolve. This was hardly the time to argue with the infuriating man with his even more infuriating glasses.

If Crowley uttered anything further, Azira couldn’t hear it. He’d reached the narrow ladder and clung gratefully to its solid rungs. With another breath, he began to climb, though with no clear idea of what he would do once he got to the top. 

The train bent around a curve and the foot bearing his weight slipped from its rung. For a heart-stopping moment, he found himself dangling over the ground as it hurtled by below. 

“Hang on, angel!” Crowley yelled above the rushing wind. Then he climbed out onto the side of the train with Azira. 

Scrabbling desperately for purchase with his feet, Azira finally regained his footing, and clung to the metal ladder, arms shaking. Then with renewed determination, he resumed his climb to the roof of the car. 

“Azira! Damn it, stop and listen to me!”

But Azira didn’t stop and he didn’t listen. There wasn’t time. 

So he pulled himself over the lip of the roof and onto the top of the car. Luckily, the transom afforded a plethora of hand- and footholds, and he pulled himself nearer his quarry. 

He sensed more than saw Crowley climb up behind him just as Hastur turned around and pushed himself up to a crouch. 

“You won’t get away with this, you fiend!” Azira hurled at him.

“Won’t get away with what?” the thief taunted just as Crowley drew even with Azira on the left side of the transom. “Nipping the Apocalypse Scroll out from under your nose, or using it to conquer the world? With the witch’s journal, I’m thinking we have a pretty good chance.”

“You don’t know how to decipher the code! You won’t find it!” Azira shouted, feeling Crowley stiffen next to him.

“You're not the only clever clogs in Egypt, you know. We've got people who can figure it out.”

Azira shuffled toward Hastur, his blood boiling with righteous fury. He drew his knees under him, leaning into the wind and preparing to leap. If he tumbled off, he’d at least take the bastard with him.

Then something heavy crashed into his back, pinning him back to the roof of the train car. He gasped as his chest hit the edge of the transom painfully enough to leave bruises. He blinked, dazed, the now familiar scent of Crowley’s aftershave filling the air. 

Azira opened his mouth to protest Crowley’s interference, but he was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a plane engine over the racket of the train’s chugging wheels.

A biplane skirted the top of the carriage, low enough to have knocked Azira off, or worse, catching him up in the propeller. If Crowley hadn’t pushed him flush to the roof... Well, it looked as if Azira owed Crowley his life—again.

“Better luck, mate,” Hastur shouted at them as he grabbed the crossbar affixed to the landing gear. Then the plane lifted, carrying Hastur away.


	6. Chess and Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scroll is finally explained, and Crowley challenges Azira to a chess game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my lovely beta [Z A Dusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/works), whose invaluable insights help bring this story to life. <333

“Blast!” Azira swore as he watched the man sail off to safety. 

He wriggled from his stomach onto his back, still pinned by Crowley’s weight, prepared to light into the man for thwarting his plans. But one glance at Crowley and Azira’s aggravation evaporated entirely, leaving behind the conflicting heat of embarrassment and chill of fear. 

Crowley had stilled on top of him, his expression unreadable, his features tight. What was he thinking behind that dark-lensed wall? And could he possibly do that thinking elsewhere, as opposed to pressed chest-to-ankle against Azira? Because there was a clear and immediate danger of Azira’s body forgetting its terror at being trapped atop a moving train while in such extreme proximity to the handsome whipcord-muscled man clinging to it for dear life. And Azira just could not take that chance.

“Do you mind?” he asked, hoping that if he injected enough irritation into the question he might drown out the mortification.

“Yes! I very much mind!” Crowley shouted over the rushing wind. “I am laying on top of an  _ idiot _ on top of a hurtling death machine!”

“Well, there’s a remedy for that, you know,” Azira shouted back. “If you would  _ please _ — ”

Before he could finish the demand, however, a loud bang vibrated through the train, followed by a giant belch of black cloud that engulfed them as it streamed past. The train immediately slowed, its wheels grinding against metal brakes.

Coughing, Azira pushed himself up, now clinging to Crowley instead of the other way around. He buried his face into Crowley’s shirt, eyes gritty with coal particles.

“What now?” Crowley growled into Azira’s skin as he sheltered his face against Azira’s neck.

The train glided to a stop and, in the absence of wind, the choking smoke blessedly lifted into the atmosphere.

Crowley scrambled to his feet. Then he latched onto Azira’s forearm and yanked him up as well. He marched them both back to the ladder, where he finally let go and crossed his arms, glaring pointedly until Azira started to descend.

Azira scrambled down to the window ledge without much grace. His arms and shoulders were already sore from this misadventure, and he shuddered to think how his other bumps and bruises from the previous day were faring.

He’d barely got back into the train when he found himself gripped in a bear hug from Anathema.

“The boiler blew,” Newt reported as Crowley climbed back into the vestibule behind Azira. “Something about a bent piston rod. No one was hurt, thank god, but we’re dead in the water until they can fix it.”

“How long?” Azira asked, his heart pounding. Every second of delay put their adversary further ahead. 

“This was no accident,” Crowley said. “Hastur must have fiddled with the boiler before he left. Explains why he was headed toward the back of the train when you saw him. If the plane had been a minute later, it could have run afoul of the explosion.”

“We can’t just stay here, Crowley! We need to be in Alexandria.”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” Newt said, shaking his head. “No roads, no camel trains, nothing. I checked.”

“How long until we can leave?” Azira demanded.

Newt shrugged. “Best guess is a day.”

Azira swayed, feeling faint. An entire day?

“It’s all right, Dr. Fell,” Anathema said. “They still don’t know where to look.”

“Perhaps not, but they know that they  _ should _ be looking. And that’s my fault,” he said miserably, covering his face with a sooty hand.

“No more than losing the book in the first place was mine,” Anathema said.

Azira shot her a grateful, if not entirely believing, look. 

A few minutes later, after he’d washed up as best he could in the train’s barely adequate facilities, Azira returned to the sleeper compartment he shared with Anathema. 

Crowley, still covered in soot, was sprawled in the seat Azira had occupied at the start of the journey. The man had no right looking even more devastatingly attractive than he usually did while all-over smudged with dirt. And it certainly didn’t help Azira’s composure when Crowley slithered over barely enough to give Azira room to sit down 

Azira sighed, shutting the compartment door behind him, and sat next to Anathema instead. Newt, who, for his part, was leaning back against the window, snorted quietly as Azira settled into his seat. Crowley shot his young assistant a sour look through his glasses but maintained his new position as if he’d meant to shift regardless of Azira’s seating preference.

“So,” Crowley said, drawing out the vowel. “Spice routes, huh?”

There was really nothing for it. Crowley knew now. He knew Azira had lied—repeatedly—and he’d still saved him from being mowed down by that aeroplane.

“It’s…not about spice routes.” Admitting it aloud was like pushing through setting cement. The truth did not want to be brought to light.

“S’what I figured, since I never met a spice route that could conquer the world.”

Newt kept strangely silent at this pronouncement, eyeing Azira with his usual amiable equanimity, while Anathema jolted in her seat as if briefly electrocuted.

“Hastur spoke out of turn,” Azira told Anathema.

“Not so much spoke out of turn as revealed the truth,” Crowley corrected him. “What exactly  _ is _ an Apocalypse Scroll? And how d’you use it to conquer anything?”

“ _ The _ Apocalypse Scroll.There is only one.” 

Was there only one? Good lord, he hoped so. What a perfectly terrifying thought.

“ _ The _ Apocalypse Scroll, then. What is it, how’s it work, why are you looking for it? Start from the beginning, and without all the lying this time.”

Azira shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but there was nowhere to hide. Crowley was inextricably involved at this point whether Azira wished it or not.

“The Apocalypse Scroll is an ancient artifact from Mesopotamia. It predates even the earliest pharaohs in Egypt.”

“Then why’s it in Alexandria instead of some ziggurat in Iraq?”

“We aren’t positive it  _ is _ in Alexandria, quite honestly,” Azira answered, rubbing absently at the soot stains on his cuffs. “It’s just the likeliest place to start, given that the scroll became part of the collection in the Great Library during Persian rule. Legend has it that Alexander the Great used it—”

“—to conquer the world, right, right,” Crowley finished for him. “But  _ how _ _? _ ”

“You have to understand that we’re dealing with a story so ancient and so secretive that only whispers of it have been heard throughout the centuries.”

“There must be some record of its destructive capabilities, or people wouldn’t be after it.”

“The legend speaks of a weapon housed in the scroll.”

“Housed? What d’you mean ‘housed’?”

“We don’t know. That is the exact wording used by the only document in existence that references the scroll. Our best guess is that it reveals the location of the weapon, or it contains instructions for how to use it. Or, less likely, the scroll itself is the weapon.”

“What kind of weapon?” Crowley fixed him with a deeply sceptical glare.

“One that can cause the extinction of entire civilizations in a single event.”

“Bollocks. That’s not possible.”

Azira exchanged a look with Anathema.

“What?” Crowley said.

Anathema picked up the thread of the story. “Antioch, Thera, Zacateotlán, Shaanxi, Pompeii.”

Crowley shook his head. “Those were natural disasters. Earthquakes, tsunamis, volcanoes. At least, most of them. Never heard of…what’s it?…Zacatlan?”

“Zacateotlán. It’s in the Americas. Latin America, specifically. Or was, I should say. It’s long gone now.”

“And you’re saying these  _ weren’t _ natural disasters?”

“Maybe some of them were,” Azira said, heart heavy. “But many of them were the result of the weapon, at least according to legend. We can’t know for certain which, not without more information to go on than one medieval priest’s account of the confession of one Byzantine soldier.”

“Medieval priest? What Medieval priest?”

“That’s the long-story version. Right now, you just need to know that the soldier confessed his part in hiding the scroll at the behest of his general, who’d foiled a plan to use the weapon and lost his life for it. The general’s men, in league with a high priest of some...what’s the word? Ethereal? Some ethereal religion lost to time, more’s the pity, hid—” 

“I think you mean occult,” Crowley supplied.

“Yes, occult. Thank you. Anyway, the general’s men and the occult priest hid the scroll behind a series of four trials. To find the scroll, one must survive the trials.”

“What kind of trials?”

Azira shook his head. “That is unknown. Or at least, it was not included in the letter.”

“So nothing about how to get through them either, I take it.”

“Not a syllable,” Azira admitted. “Now do you see why I tried to keep you clear of it? The kind of people who’d want what the scroll offers would be more than willing to kill for it. Or worse.”

Crowley hmphed and crossed his arms. 

“You can still bow out, you know,” Azira continued. “You and young Newt.”

Crowley didn’t answer, and Azira didn’t press. Instead, Crowley stared morosely through the window at the unfortunate scene of locomotive engineers hauling debris and assessing the damage to the boiler. If Crowley had any sense, he would accept the graceful exit Azira was offering and hop the very next train back to Cairo.

Crowley sighed heavily and got to his feet. “I’d best clean up,” he said, shortly. Then he sauntered from the room, Newt following behind.

Azira’s hopes fell, treacherous hopes that he’d no idea he’d been harboring. Hopes that Crowley would continue to guide him and Anathema through the perils that lay ahead for them in Alexandria, and perhaps beyond it. He shouldn’t have allowed such thoughts to take root. It wasn’t as if Crowley had been an especially easy companion. But he had been there for Azira, saving him twice now when Azira might otherwise have died. And he’d been…charming, some of the time.

“Oi, angel,” Crowley said, popping his head back into their compartment. “Meet us in the dining car in an hour, yeah?”

Then he popped out again, leaving Azira’s head spinning.

“I think there is something deeply wrong with that man,” Anathema said, frowning. But she made no objection to dinner.

*

When Azira and Anathema arrived at the dining car an hour later, a dapper steward with a luxurious mustache greeted them with a smile. He showed them to a table near the back of the car. The staff had set out games on several of the tables to amuse the stranded passengers. Their table had an exquisite antique chess set, the pieces sculpted of bronze, the board a checked masterpiece of brilliant tiger-eye and turquoise marble. Azira picked up one of the little horses and examined the faded carvings on either side. 

“D’you play?” Crowley asked as he flopped into a chair opposite Azira. 

“Oh, not at all,” Azira said, returning the piece to its home square on the board. “I was merely marveling at the craftsmanship.”

Then he looked properly at his dinner companion and managed to barely contain a gasp. Well, not so much contain as manage to stifle into a barely audible squeak, and he was lucky to have managed that. The man had cleaned up much more thoroughly than Azira, combing his hair back into the latest style and donning fresh clothes. He smelled of fresh citrus and mint, with only a hint of remaining brimstone. He’d even shaved. How had he managed it in the meager washroom facilities the train afforded? 

Azira was rendered speechless, his throat doing complicated things that made small talk all but impossible. He felt like a fish newly plucked from the water, breathless and flailing and utterly confounded at having come to such a state. His only hope was someone else throwing him a life preserver.

“Do  _ you _ play?” Anathema asked Crowley, nudging Azira surreptitiously with her elbow under the table.

“He does,” Newt said amiably. “And I’ve never seen anyone beat him. I have seen a lot of people try, most of them losing a day’s wages in the process.”

“Would you care to play?” Crowley asked Azira with a wolfish smile, sconce-light glinting off his glasses.

“Oh, no, thank you,” Azira said, finally able to press words past the block in his throat. He took a long swallow from his water glass. “I’m afraid I’d be rather easy prey.”

“You never know,” Crowley said, clasping his hands in front of him and leaning forward. “There’s always beginner’s luck.”

“Perhaps after dinner, then,” Azira said as a waiter arrived to share the wine selection.

Azira accepted his glass gratefully when it arrived and downed it in one.

“Slow down, angel,” Crowley said. “We’re stranded, remember?”

“All the more reason to, ah, ease the anxiety,” Azira said and poured himself another from the bottle the waiter had left at the table.

The others drank judiciously at first but soon loosened up enough to imbibe more liberally. Unfortunately for Azira, who had a constitution like an ox, it took more alcohol than most to get him sozzled. Nevertheless, between the drink and the passage of time, he became more inured to Crowley’s freshly scrubbed-up handsomeness and was able to participate in conversation again, thank all the saints and reliquaries. 

The meal itself was fair to middling in comparison to the koshary from the previous night, though it could hardly be expected for the larder of a train to be stocked with the freshest ingredients. But in the end, the meal left Azira satisfied, so he counted it easily as at least the most relaxing part of his day.

It helped that the conversation had veered far afield of the business at hand. They were trapped for the moment, and it seemed that all had silently agreed to table the matter until something could be done. Azira was grateful for it. Not only had he no wish to speak openly about something so dangerous, especially after the debacle with Hastur, but he needed a rest from the responsibility, if only a temporary one. The weight of it fell heavily on his shoulders. It was nice to set the yoke aside for a few stolen moments.

As the waiter cleared their dishes, Anathema covered a yawn with her hand. It suddenly occurred to Azira how tired he was, how tired they must all be. Especially Crowley. As far as Azira knew, he hadn’t slept the night before. He’d been too busy chasing the dubious leads Azira had given him, for which he now felt exceptionally guilty. Alas, he’d only booked the one sleeping compartment, and the train had been scuttled because of him, and now he felt even more guilty. 

“My dear, you must be positively knackered,” Azira said to Crowley. “You couldn’t have gotten any sleep last night. I do apologize—”

But Crowley waved away his apology before he could even finish it.

“Perhaps we should take it in turns,” Azira fumbled. “The sleeping compartment, I mean. We could—”

“Don’t fret about it, angel. I’m used to it.”

“Not sleeping?”

Crowley shrugged. “The war, you know. No sleep in the trenches.”

“Oh,” Azira said. “I hadn’t realized.”

“That’s how I wound up in Egypt. Stationed here in 1914. EEF, 127 th Infantry.”

“Did you see much action?”

“Battle of Krithia was pretty rough,” he said simply, but his tone suggested hellish landscapes he’d very much rather not revisit, even in memory. “Romani, as well.”

“I see,” Azira said.

An awkward silence descended.

“How ‘bout that game, angel?” Crowley said quickly, retrieving the beautiful chess board from where it had been shunted off onto the windowsill.

“Alright,” Azira said. “But I don’t expect I’ll be any good.”

“That’s fine. I’ll try not to trounce you too hard in the first round.”

Azira smiled. He liked the glimpses he saw of the soft-hearted man underneath the thorny exterior. 

“Now, to begin play, you must move your pawn…”

Azira moved his first pawn into proper position.

“Seems you do know a bit about chess,” Crowley said, moving his own pawn forward.

“I have read about the game on occasion,” Azira said. “When it has come up tangentially in my studies. So I do know the basic objective and the proscribed motions for each of the pieces. But I’m afraid my rudimentary understanding ends there.”

“Excellent. Then let’s just play, shall we?”

Azira moved a second pawn, the one to the left of the first, forward two spaces, which Crowley’s original pawn then immediately captured.

“Ah, the Sicilian Defense,” Azira cooed, delighted. “Capital.”

“The what now?” Crowley said.

Azira responded by moving a third pawn forward, which Crowley also took, with perhaps a shade more hesitation.

Azira then captured the twice-offending pawn with his knight, and five moves later, he placed his bishop triumphantly on the F7 square.

“Checkmate,” he said with a pleased wiggle.

Newt gaped as if he’d swallowed his own tongue, while Anathema leaned back with a satisfied smirk. Crowley studied the board as if looking for an escape hatch. But Azira had double-checked before declaring victory. There was no possibility of Crowley recovering after committing the E5 blunder.

“I thought you said you’d never played before,” Crowley said, dumbfounded.

“I haven’t,” Azira confirmed. “I’ve read books, though, remember?”

“You…you beat Crowley,” Newt said, finally recovering enough to speak. “In less than ten moves. I…I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Crowley shot an acid glare at his assistant. “Rematch?” he said to Azira.

“That would be delightful,” Azira said with a grin. “Would you care to play white this time?”

Crowley grumbled in response as he finished resetting the pieces. Azira took that as a ‘no’ and moved first again. Crowley countered, and the game commenced.

“Did you serve in the war?” Crowley asked as he studied the board a good deal more intently than he did the last game.

“Yes and no,” Azira said, somewhat abashedly. “I volunteered, of course, but as you may have noticed, I tend to prattle on when I’m nervous. I ended up spilling nearly my entire life story to the examining physician. I may have mentioned that I’d decided at a younger age to simply grow more vegetables to avoid having to kill a rat that had taken over our garden and eaten everything. Check, dear. I thought it merely an amusing anecdote, given that I was volunteering for a war, but the physician wrote  _ psychologically unfit _ on my paperwork. The recruiter then assigned me to administrative duty as a staff clerk in the Ordnance Corps. I’m afraid I never left Britain, let alone fought on the front lines.”

Crowley moved his king behind a rook in a desperate attempt to protect it from Azira’s aggressive attack. “You ever see any action?”

“None at all,” Azira admitted, though he hardly felt badly about it. “It was for the best, I’m sure. I was far more useful for my cataloguing skills, it turned out. Checkmate.”

“What?” Newt said, flummoxed again. “You beat him  _ twice _ _? _ ”

Azira fiddled with one of the black pieces he’d captured, worried suddenly that his winning again so quickly might make him seem a braggart.

“You did play very well,” he reassured Crowley. “It took me longer this time to discern your strategy.”

“I wasn’t playing with a strategy,” Crowley said, his expression thoughtful. “Let’s play again.”

“Oh, dear, I… Perhaps Newt should play, or Anathema—would you like a turn, dear?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Anathema said, smiling as wolfishly as Crowley had earlier.

Azira looked to Newt but he mutely shook his head. Azira sighed and passed Crowley the black pieces.

Two hours and three games later, two of which Crowley won, Azira was setting up for another round, when first Anathema and then Newt left to take the first shifts in the sleeping compartment.

“Aren’t you tired, angel?” Crowley asked, sipping an old fashioned he’d had the steward magic up.

“Of course,” Azira said. “It’s not every day I grapple with death atop a Pullman.”

“If you’d like, you can take Newt’s place. He’s young. Needs some tempering anyway.”

“That’s kind of you, but I’m not a great sleeper at the best of times. I often find it difficult to quiet my mind.” He finished setting the board and glanced up at Crowley, becoming trapped in the other man’s gaze. “And, frankly, I find this entire adventure deeply stirring. I am not sure I could sleep just now if I wanted to.”

Crowley didn’t speak nor move for a full minute, just sat and studied Azira. “You are altogether strange, you know that?” he said finally as he moved a pawn forward on the board.

Azira looked down. “You’ve made the first move,” he said quietly. “Wasn’t I supposed to do that?”

“If you’re the type that follows the rules,” Crowley said. “Are you?”

Azira could feel something unspoken underpinning the question. He couldn’t tell what it was, so he answered the question posed to him.

“I believe I am. But…it depends on who is making the rules and why.”

“So you’d do the wrong thing for the right reason?”

“I’d do the right thing whether someone else thought it was wrong or not. And you?”

Rather than answer Azira’s riposte, Crowley said, “Funny, can’t say I expected you to ascribe to that kind of heretical philosophy.”

Azira frowned. “Because my family’s religious?”

Crowley leaned forward over the table. “Because you’re an angel,” he said, capturing Azira’s gaze again as easily he’d done Azira’s pawns.

On a sleep-deprived whim, Azira reached up and lightly placed his fingertips on the bars of Crowley’s dark glasses.

“May I?” he breathed, hardly believing his daring.

“Yeah, alright,” Crowley said just as softly.

Azira carefully grasped the bars and pulled the glasses towards him, revealing the loveliest shade of light-brown eyes Azira had ever seen. The same color, or very nearly, as the tiger-eye squares on the chessboard between them. Crowley blinked at him in the dim light, pupils constricting just the slightest bit. Azira became lost in those eyes, that gaze, at once, and had he been capable of higher levels of brain functioning at that moment, he’d have worried himself ragged about it.

“There, now, not so much a mystery after all,” Crowley said. “I suppose you expected a hideous scar. Or snake pupils. Or something.”

“Not at all,” Azira said, his mind still far from in control of his mouth. “They’re lovely. Why do you cover them?”

Crowley shrugged, and if Azira didn’t know better, he could have sworn Crowley was blushing. “Just more comfortable is all. Makes me look like an arsehole, which I am. Avoids any pesky confusion.”

“Why do you really wear them?” Azira asked.

Crowley shrugged again. “S’just my thing.”

Azira handed the glasses, still warm from contact with Crowley’s skin, back to their owner. Crowley folded the bars across the lenses and put them in his pocket.

“Are we going to play, or what?” Crowley said.

“Of course, dear,” Azira said, moving his pawn to counter Crowley’s. Then, to further ease the sudden tension between them, Azira said, “Do you really use a canopic jar from the 26 th dynasty as an office paperweight?”

Crowley chuckled as he moved his knight into position to take down Azira’s bishop. 

“Trust you to notice,” he said fondly

“Where in heaven did you get it?”

“Well, now, that’s a very long story. Will probably take several games and a few more drinks, if I’m honest.”

Azira took Crowley’s knight with his queen.

“How about a nice pudding instead?”

Crowley nodded as he castled his king. “Whatever you like, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Battles of [Krithia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Krithia) and [Romani](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Romani) really happened, and Crowley's infantry brigade (also called the [Manchester Brigade](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/127th_\(Manchester\)_Brigade)) was real as well. 
> 
> And for Azira's side of things, the [Royal Army Ordnance Corps](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Royal_Army_Ordnance_Corps) was in charge of supply and repair, which isn't to say they were never deployed (maybe they were, I'm no expert in British military history), but for the purposes of this story and character arc, Azira was not. 
> 
> Also, so many men volunteered for the war that the army looked for ways to weed out people to avoid being flooded with new recruits, even [raising the height minimum](https://www.iwm.org.uk/history/from-civilian-to-first-world-war-soldier-in-8-steps) at one point to disqualify more people. So I figured it wasn't much of a stretch that a doctor would disqualify someone otherwise able-bodied like Azira just for a nervous anecdote. ;-)
> 
> The chess set described above refers to this [lovely masterpiece](https://www.chairish.com/product/1907092/1960s-vintage-frederick-weinberg-style-brutalist-bronze-chess-set-signed). (Yes, I realize it's from the 1960's--I claim artistic license. It was just too perfect to pass up!)
> 
> And of course, the chess scene is ALLLL kinds of metaphor and foreshadowing. I'll leave you to figure out what means what. (Honestly, I'm not even sure yet what a couple of the significant bits mean--I guess we'll find out together!) And of course, the gambits and defenses referenced are all real as well. Here is the [Sicilian Defense](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sicilian_Defence). And Azira uses the [Smith-Morra gambit](https://www.thechesswebsite.com/smith-morra-gambit/) to some success. Needless to say, I spent waaaaaay too long researching this chapter. Yeesh.
> 
> Oh, and for anyone who may not know (*winks at Allie*), an [old fashioned](https://www.eater.com/drinks/2015/5/5/8507717/theres-no-wrong-way-to-make-an-old-fashioned) is a popular whiskey-based cocktail.


	7. Accommodations and Communiques

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes arrive in Alexandria and run into a few old friends...and enemies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks go to the incomparable [Z A Dusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/works) for immeasurable help and encouragement.

Azira exited the Sidi Gaber station into the heat of the noon-day sun and felt his entire body relax in the sudden warmth. They’d made it to Alexandria at last and not a moment too soon. 

Newt and Anathema had slept till sunrise while Azira and Crowley played chess and talked. When the pair of assistants had emerged, Azira had begged off in the middle of a game in order to claim one of the bunks in the sleeper compartment for himself. Crowley had made no move to join him, so Azira grabbed the man’s wrist and pulled him along, made brazen by lack of sleep and a very enjoyable night overall. Crowley hadn’t resisted, curling up on the lower bunk at Azira’s insistence, while Azira collapsed, fully clothed, on the upper. Azira had fallen asleep in seconds and not woken again until the train began to move just before the eleven o’clock hour.

Alexandria didn’t disappoint. It was both similar to and entirely different from Cairo. The smell of the sea, for one thing, freshened the hot breeze around them. And the sky seemed somehow a softer blue.

“If you wouldn’t mind, dear,” Azira said, pausing to fan himself with his hat as Crowley checked his watch. “I need to stop by the telegraph office. I haven’t checked in with Gabriel since we arrived, and he must be wondering about our progress.”

He squinted against the glare of the sun, envying Crowley his dark glasses. Perhaps the man really only wore them to protect his sight from the brightness.

“Eh, alright,” Crowley said. “We’ll have to detour to Saed Zaghloul, but it’s not too far out of our way.”

“Our way to where?” Anathema asked as Newt walked towards them from the station loo.

“Lodgings,” Crowley said. “I’ve made accommodations with a friend of mine. We’ll be staying at hers while we’re…doing whatever it is we’re doing here.”

Azira smiled fondly at Crowley’s grousing. He now knew how soft his guide was underneath the grumbling. He was still uncomfortably attracted to the man, perhaps more so now than ever. But their fee-for-service arrangement had been upgraded to one of companionable cooperation and partnership after the previous day’s near-death experience. If Crowley had found them lodgings, then Azira didn’t need to know the details. He was beginning to trust Crowley, just as Crowley was beginning to believe in Azira, or so Azira hoped, anyway. He found he rather liked - very much liked - the growing warmth between them. 

Azira realized suddenly that he was smiling too much and shifted his attention to their surroundings. A camel train passed, easily as long as the train they’d just disembarked, each camel weighed down by multiple heavy burlap sacks of goods or bundles of thatch. Women and their daughters dressed in traditional white robes crossed the square in groups of twos and threes, greeting each other against the backdrop of a modern infrastructure and an eclectic blend of architectural styles. A policeman directing traffic whistled at them to cross, which they did just in time to catch the streetcar to the business district. 

When they reached Saed Zaghloul Boulevard, Crowley led them into the cool interior of the telegraph office. The man behind the counter wore an Eastern Telegraph Company uniform and greeted them with a deferential nod. He gestured to a sitting area off to the side.

“Gentlemen, if you don't mind making yourselves comfortable? The telegraph operators are all currently busy assisting other customers. One of them will be with you shortly.”

Crowley leaned against a shelf displaying stacks of pamphlets while Anathema wandered off to look at postcards and Newt bought scrumptious smelling rice-stuffed peppers from a street vendor.

“What are you going to tell Gabriel?” Crowley asked.

“I suppose, I’ll tell him that we’re in Alexandria meeting an antiquities trader.”

“Ah, so we’re going with lying.”

“I believe it is the prudent approach.”

“Why not tell him what you’re really after? Why hide it from him?”

Azira looked away, unsure how Crowley would feel about him deceiving his employer. It hadn’t even occurred to Azira to worry about it.

“We…could speak to some antiquities traders, if you like,” Azira offered. “So that it’s not a lie?”

Crowley cocked his head. “If  _ I _ like? Why would I care if you lie to your brother?”

“Because he’s your employer,” Azira reminded him. “He’s probably expecting a report from you, as well. And I don’t want to force you to lie if you’re uncomfortable—”

“Oh. Nah, don’t worry your pretty head about that. I don’t report to him. And even if I did, I wouldn’t give a damn about lying.”

_ Pretty head…? _ Azira paused, flustered. He knew perfectly well Crowley meant nothing by it, but for one moment he let himself fantasize about Crowley thinking of him that way, finding him pretty, before throttling his insubordinate heart into submission. 

“Angel?”

He was staring again. Good lord, this trip was going to be the end of him. Or at least, the end of his dignity and self-respect.

“Yes, sorry. I’m afraid I was woolgathering there for a moment. What did you say?”

“I said, I don’t report to him. But I’m still curious why you’re lying.”

“Right. Well, Gabriel and I don’t exactly get on.”

“I gathered as much. I was hoping you might go into a bit more detail about that.”

“We…we don’t see eye to eye.”

“About what?”

“About anything, really,” Azira said, ruefully. “He believes that everyone should ascribe to his version of God, and that any other belief system is heretical and sinful. He believes he is somehow saving the world, if you can believe that drivel.”

Crowley outright laughed at that, holding his ribs as if they might break.

“Why is that funny?”

“Aren’t  _ you _ trying to save the world?”

Azira gaped at him. “It’s not the same thing at all! I’m trying to save people from literal death. He’s trying to save people from a damnation he can’t even prove exists.”

“And you can prove the scroll exists?” Crowley said, still grinning like a loon and wiping an eye beneath his glasses.

“Shhh!” Azira hissed. “We’re in public. Anyone could hear you.” Azira tugged his waistcoat and looked warily at the other people in the telegraph office. “The difference is, I have no plans to interfere with anyone's lives. Gabriel, on the other hand, is steamrolling everyone in his path until he flattens them into submission.”

“I suppose you have a point.”

“Thank you,” Azira said, still affronted at being compared to Gabriel in any way. 

“Just curious is all,” Crowley continued. “Seems like you don’t particularly like your brother.”

Azira paused, simultaneously wanting and not wanting to admit the truth. “He’s my brother,” he said at last, as if that explained everything.

“So what, you can’t admit you dislike him because he’s family?”

“Meaning it doesn’t matter whether I like or dislike him. He just is.”

“Yes, but you  _ do _ have feelings about him one way or the other.”

“Why does this even matter to you?”

Crowley shrugged with the kind of studied nonchalance that Azira was starting to interpret as Crowley actually being quite interested in whatever he was pretending to be indifferent about. “It doesn’t. Like I said, just curious.”

Azira sighed. “Well, I suppose it’s of no moment if you  _ do _ know. I’m just not in the habit of airing my family’s dirty laundry, so to speak. What in heaven’s name is taking the telegraph operators so long?”

“No pressure, angel. If you don’t want to talk about it…”

“No, it’s fine. You’re right that I don’t like him. I don’t approve of his methods, as I said, but there’s more to it. We have a personal history that is not…well, let’s just say he can be a bit controlling and a bit…frightening when things, when  _ people _ , don’t obey him.” 

Azira swallowed, not wanting to continue. He looked down when he realized he was wringing his hands. He clenched his fingers and then lowered his hands to his sides. Gabriel always hated it when he fidgeted.

When he dared to look up again, Crowley was leaning against the counter as casually as ever, but there was an underlying tension in him that sent a shiver down Azira’s spine.

“He ... frightened you?” Crowley asked softly.

Blast. How had the conversation got to such a fraught place? And more importantly, how could Azira bring it back to the point at hand?

“Once or twice,” he answered vaguely. “It hardly matters now. He’s thousands of miles away and not likely to come all the way out here.”

“What about?” Crowley asked.

“What about what?”

“What was he angry about…when you were at odds?”

Warning bells clanged in Azira’s mind and all the gates in his heart came crashing down at once.  _ That _ was a subject he would  _ never _ discuss with Crowley.  _ Ever _ . He couldn’t risk it. And even if he could, he wouldn’t. That was between him and Gabriel and God, and not a soul else. 

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” Crowley asked.

Azira shook his head, his hands wringing themselves again. This time, he let them. 

Crowley sighed. “Well, if he ever  _ does _ come to Egypt, I will protect you from him, too.” 

The warning bells in Azira’s head evaporated into a resoundingly loud silence _ ,  _ one that surely everyone in all of Alexandria could hear, and he stared at Crowley with no idea how to stop. His hands stilled of their own accord, without him forcing them to do so. And yet…Crowley couldn’t mean that. Not in the way that Azira wanted to hear it.

“I mean, th-the arrangement!” Crowley said, seeming uncharacteristically nervous. “Our arrangement, as guide and client, of course. Comes with the fee. Couldn’t have clients falling into pits of vipers or sailing off the backs of moving trains or—”

“Yes, of course!” Azira rushed to agree even as he internally reprimanded himself. “Naturally, it would be bad for business. I totally underst—”

“Gentlemen, we are ready for you,” the telegraph clerk said, interrupting their mutual spluttering.

“Oh, oh, thank you,” Azira told the clerk warmly, for it had been a kindness. Honestly, it would be a miracle from God Herself, if Crowley were still unaware of Azira’s feelings by the time the expedition concluded.

“What message would you like to transmit?” the clerk asked after Azira and Crowley had been seated by the man’s desk. 

“Er… Guide engaged. Arrived in Alexandria without incident. Meeting with traders scheduled.” He turned to Crowley. “Do you think that’s sufficient?”

Crowley gestured vaguely, seeming to have already recovered from their near misunderstanding. “You know him better than I do. Would that satisfy him?”

Azira thought for a moment, and then said. “Better add: Everything tickety-boo.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him. “Tickety-boo?”

“Well,  _ I _ don’t know,” Azira said with a small amount of petulance. “Do you have a better idea?”

But Crowley let the subject drop, so the telegram was sent as it was, and Azira was very glad to be on their way elsewhere. 

Elsewhere turned out to be another townhouse that looked suspiciously similar to the one Crowley had taken him to the night they’d first met.

“Crowley, is this another brothel?”

“Best koshary in town?” Crowley answered with a sheepish grin.

Azira rolled his eyes. “I’m starting to wonder if ‘koshary’ isn’t a euphemism for something else entirely.”

“No, no, I promise, angel,” Crowley said. “Everything is above board.”

“It is one thing to dine at such an establishment, but it's quite another to submit an expense report to an evangelical foundation with an expense line item that reads  _ Jezebel Lodgings _ .”

“Not very Christian to turn up your nose at prostitutes, though?”

“Oh, you know that  _ I _ don’t mind. I just don’t want—”

“Gentlemen! I hope you don’t plan on bickering on my doorstep  _ all  _ day. It is rather hot out.”

Tracy herself regarded them from the open doorway, resplendent in colorful robes and baubles.

“Pardon me, dear lady,” Azira said with a bow. “I hope I did not offend.”

“Not at all, love. But I would rather you argued about it indoors, away from the awful sun. It won’t set for hours yet, you know.”

Azira kissed her hand, which smelled of petunias and tea.

“If I may,” Azira said. “How did you arrive here before us? We only just got in at midday.”

“I hopped the train this morning, per Crowley’s hasty missive from the station yesterday. I’d have come up on last night’s train, but as you know, yours was unfortunately blocking the track.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, though he leveled an annoyed look at Crowley.

“Arrived just after you did, and came straight here,” she explained as the four travelers wearily followed her into the foyer. The interior was blessedly cooler, even more so than the telegraph office, for which Azira was profoundly grateful.

“Did you bring the package?” Crowley asked mysteriously.

“I did,” Tracy answered with a smile. “Though it was a trick talking Dalila into it.”

“Because she was afraid we’d break her?”

“Because she was afraid  _ she’d _ break  _ us _ ,” Tracy said and laughed.

“Oi!” came a girlish voice from the kitchen as a young lady of about twelve came barreling through the door, carrying a wooden spoon. “I heard that.”

“Pepper, what an unexpected pleasure,” Crowley said, grinning. “I presume you’re already cooking up a batch of your mother’s famous koshary?”

“You know I hate traveling.”

“And yet, you came anyway. I’m touched.”

The girl scoffed at him and said, “I’m just a walking recipe to you.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Crowley said.

The girl kissed her fingers, opened her palm, and blew a fine mist of flour all over Crowley’s shirt.

“You little demon!”

She squealed and ran from the room, brandishing the spoon high like a club. Crowley gave chase, and into the kitchen they went with a crash. Tracy and Anathema winced. Newt stretched as if all of this was completely par for the course.

“He seems to be rather good with children,” Azira remarked.

Tracy shrugged. “Ones he likes, anyway,” she said. “Why don’t you all follow me to your rooms. I’ve set aside the top floors for you all. Shouldn’t have too many interruptions up there.”

“Thank you, Madame,” Azira said. “That is very kind.”

“Tracy, is it?” Anathema said from behind Azira before they began the climb up the richly carpeted stairs. “I’m Anathema.” She stepped forward to shake Tracy’s hand. Tracy obliged her, though she seemed a bit taken aback at the masculine gesture.

“Nice to meet you, Anathema,” Tracy said as she gestured to them to follow her up the staircase.

“I was wondering,” Anathema continued. “If you had paper and pen I could borrow? A lot of paper. And ink?”

“Of course, love,” Tracy said. “Whatever for, if I may ask?”

“Oh, a, uh, project I’m working on. For my Oxford studies.”

Azira’s ears perked up, though he didn’t know to what she was referring. As far as he was aware, she had finished all her term work before they’d left Oxford.

“Dear me, that’s exciting. What are you studying in particular?”

Anathema and Tracy prattled on as they climbed, getting to know one another far better than Azira had bothered to do when he’d first met Tracy. Of course, he’d barely met Crowley by that point either, and Azira had needed to focus on him at the time.

Tracy stopped on the second-from-top floor, showing them two clean, if tawdry, rooms, one each for Anathema and Newt. Both of them disappeared into their respective rooms to wash up from the journey and rest before dinner.

Then Tracy led Azira up the final flight of stairs to what had presumably been an attic storeroom at one time but was now a giant loft containing a joined sitting area, and a small kitchenette with a dumbwaiter that, Azira assumed, went straight to the kitchen. The doors on either end of the sitting area led to small bedrooms containing a dresser and a bed each. Another door to the right appeared to house a small washroom with an oddly shaped tub, a toilet, and a small sink.

“Honeymoon suite,” Tracy said with a smile. “Rent it out to special clients now and then when I’m not staying here myself. I’d have put Crowley and Newt up here together, and you down on the same floor as Anathema, but I imagine you’ll want to use the communal space as a sort of war room to plan your expedition. Is that alright?”

“Oh, certainly, yes, of course. Tickety-boo,” Azira stumbled, defaulting to tickety-boo again in his nervousness. He took a deep breath. “What I mean to say, madame, is thank you. This is very kind of you.”

“Never mind, dearie,” she said, patting his cheek. “You just get comfortable. Since Mr. Troublemaker is downstairs rifling through the kitchen, you get the first pick of the sleeping quarters.” Then she leaned toward him conspiratorially. “I recommend the south room. It has a beautiful view of the Khedive Ismail Square.”

And with more profusion of thanks on Azira’s part, Tracy departed down the stairs, closing the door at the bottom behind her.

Azira let out a shaky breath, surveying his new domain. A brothel of all things. Father would be rolling over in his grave if he knew. But Azira found he didn’t mind at all. Tracy was one of the nicest and most forbearing people he’d ever met, and Crowley had been right about the Savior’s opinion of women in such circumstances. If the Foundation’s legal counsel had aught to say about it, they could go stuff themselves.

With that thought, Azira claimed the south-facing room by setting his bag on the teal, rose, and cream-colored coverlet. Then he took advantage of the communal washroom, hoping to clean up and be finished before Crowley arrived. The absolute last thing he needed was to be naked with only a thin, wooden door between them. After the altogether  _ too _ personal discussion at the telegraph office, he wanted at least five layers of protection from Crowley for the next day or so.

So, of course, fate would have it that Azira had just climbed out of the tub when he heard Crowley’s heavy boots on the stairs leading to their shared living space. 

“Damn!” Azira hissed to himself as he lunged for one of the fluffy towels on the shelf opposite the sink. He slipped on the wet tile in his haste and nearly fell, catching himself on the edge of the tub.

“Angel?” Crowley said from somewhere in the living area. 

Azira inhaled sharply, pushing himself to his feet and whipping the towel around his hips just in time as Crowley opened the door to the washroom.

“Oh,” Crowley said, seeming not in the least shocked at Azira’s complete state of undress. “There you are, angel. Was looking for you.”

“I—I was just—“ He gestured stupidly at the tub. “You couldn’t knock?”

“Does it matter?” he said, reaching past Azira’s arm to pick up a decorative seashell. 

“I could have been naked!”

“For all intents and purposes, you still kind of are. Question stands, does it matter? It’s not like you’re a wo—”

Azira pushed brusquely past him before Crowley could finish the sentence, offended, hurt, and ashamed all at the same time.

“From this point forward, I insist upon my privacy,” he said as he marched towards his room. “If I happen to be on the other side of a closed door from you, I expect you to  _ knock first _ and then wait for an invitation before entering.”

“I’m not your  _ valet _ , Dr. Fell. You can’t just order me about like a bellhop.”

Azira had made it halfway across the sitting area before suddenly spinning on his heel and striding straight back towards Crowley, towel barely covering him, clothes clutched in his fist.

“That’s another thing. I will not have you slinging my title at me as some kind of insult when you’re upset with me. I am proud of my academic degrees. It took me years of hard labor and sacrifice to achieve them, and I’ll not have you belittling that effort. It’s bad enough you poke fun at my given name at every opportunity.”

Crowley gaped at him. “I—I do not—”

“I’ve made my peace with it. My given name is rather ridiculous, as I’m perfectly aware. But if you  _ must _ call me something when you’re angry, then just “Fell” will do, I suppose.”

“I’m not angry, ange— Azira.”

Azira huffed, unconvinced, and aboutfaced once again to flee to the relative safety of his room. When he crossed the threshold, he shut the door behind him with more force than strictly necessary. Then he leaned against it, letting the damned towel fall where it may. He buried his face in his hands, miserable at the mess he’d just made of his and Crowley’s still fledgling companionship. He honestly didn’t care  _ that _ much what Crowley called him. 

The truth was, he was just embarrassed. Crowley didn’t see a problem with them being naked around each other, because  _ it shouldn’t have been a problem _ . Men on the front lines during the war were probably in various states of undress around each other at nearly every hour of the day. So, of course, it meant nothing to  _ him _ . But it meant quite a bit more to Azira than it should. And he very much doubted he’d ever get the sound of Crowley saying  _ it’s not like you’re a woman _ out of his head.

Azira sagged to the floor, vexed at his own behavior. He’d have to apologize. Even if he didn’t regret what he’d said, there was no call to have said it in such an aggressive manner. He hoped he could still salvage something of their truce from earlier in the day. More than that, he hoped that he could rein in his wildly inappropriate feelings for the man. Because if he couldn’t, this kind of eruption would keep happening, until one of them sank into the sea.

~oOoOo~

“Fuck,” Crowley said as he flopped onto the couch. He should have known that playing the situation off as no big deal was not the way to handle that kind of thing with Azira. The man was the illegitimate lovechild of Propriety and Decorum, after all. There was never any chance he’d go along with Crowley’s cockup of a plan. 

Stupid of Crowley to try anyway. Azira must have seen how the whole thing had affected Crowley. He hadn’t been able to resist leaning close enough to smell the heady lilac of Azira’s shampoo. He’d pretended he’d wanted a stupid shell—the exact stupid shell he was still holding, apparently. He tossed it across the room in disgust. But he’d  _ really _ wanted Azira, and wasn’t that the damnedest thing of the whole bloody incident.

Not only was Azira male--which was surprising enough, given that thus far in his accursed existence, Crowley had felt no untoward attraction to a person of his own gender. But no, that was the least of it. Azira was also  _ Crowley’s client _ \--which carried with it a whole host of other problems that rendered any potential...well, anything...utterly impossible.  _ Forbidden _ . Crowley’s boss--his  _ real _ boss--would literally slit Crowley’s throat, and probably Azira’s as well, if Crowley ever acted on even the barest feelings of friendship with the stuffy Oxford professor.

But Crowley couldn’t help it. Something about the man just...fizzled all his brain cells. Crowley had brought up  _ plates _ from the  _ kitchen _ . For both of them. Not for all four of them. Not for himself alone. But for Azira...and him...to maybe have a sort of picnic...together. 

_ Oh, sod it all.  _ Crowley scrubbed a hand through his already disheveled hair. He  _ couldn’t _ be on the verge of smitten with the angel, because he absolutely wasn’t allowed, but somehow he was anyway. And damned if he’d ever been good at controlling anything else in his life. He hardly stood a polar bear’s chance in hell of starting now.

Well, that was tomorrow-Crowley’s problem. Today-Crowley had a more immediate concern. Azira, regardless of what Crowley did or didn’t feel about him, wasn’t even speaking to him right now. And damned if that didn’t put the kibosh on his plans.

Crowley would have to apologize. He desperately hoped Azira would just let it go so they could go back to, well, whatever it was they were doing before. But he couldn’t apologize until the man decided to come out of his thrice-damned room. Which meant Crowley’s mind had far too little to distract it from recent memories of Azira clad in far too little clothing.

So he pushed himself off the couch and slunk grouchily to the kitchen where he pulled a bottle of whiskey from a high cabinet and poured himself an unnecessarily large shot. Satan knew he needed it after the last two days. Especially if his overtired brain insisted on conjuring mental images that had no bloody right eliciting the physical responses they seemed to be eliciting.

A sudden, sharp knock at the main door to the loft caused him to nearly drop the glass he had yet to drink from. He sighed and set the glass on the table before making his way to the door.

The knock sounded again.

“I’m coming!” he barked just as he reached the door and opened it. 

A porter stood on the other side, looking nervous. 

“What is it?” Crowley grumbled.

“A man asked me to give you this, sir.” The porter handed Crowley a folded note.

Crowley unfolded it, read the message, and crumpled it in his fist. Breathing out slowly through his nose, he said to the porter, “Tell him I’ll be there.”

“Yes, s—”

Crowley closed and locked the door before the man could finish. Trudging back up the stairs, he circled the sitting-room furniture and walked back to the kitchen. Fishing through the drawers, he found what he needed and took it out. He lifted the cap and flicked the spark wheel, a tiny tongue of flame emerging from the small metal cylinder. Then Crowley touched the edge of the crumpled paper to the flame. Once it caught, he tossed the flaming note into the sink and watched it burn itself to ash, while he swallowed his shot of whisky in a single gulp.

“Angel, I’m going out,” he shouted through Azira’s closed door as he passed it, grabbing his coat on his way down the stairs. Though it wasn’t until he’d reached the landing that he remembered he wasn’t supposed to call Azira that any more.

In any case, he’d heard no response from the man in question, which was just as well. Any word from Azira would have been coal heaped on the fire of guilt burning its way through his belly. Guilt, by the way, that he  _ should _ have been feeling for entertaining disloyal thoughts towards his employer, the man who’d saved him from certain death. But instead, the guilt held the distinct flavor of angel, with notes of cream and blue, wrapped in a tartan bow tie.

Twenty minutes later, he entered a grimy alley. Really, why was it always grimy alleys with these two? 

“Took you long enough, you flash bastard,” Hastur said from the shadows as he lit a clove cigarette, the orange flare illuminating his ugly mug. Ligur stepped into the spill of light from a bare bulb above an unmarked door.

“You couldn’t have waited a week for me to get his feathers settled? The bloody train nearly blew the whole thing.”

“Weren’t my fault,” Hastur groused. “You’re gettin’ too cozy with the mark, mate.”

“Not your fault?” Crowley hissed. “You ran past his compartment like you were waving a bloody red flag at a bull!”

“Enough!” Ligur said as he strode up between them from the other end of the alley. “Makes no difference now. Everybody’s here.”

Crowley paced, his unease doubling by the minute. “What do you want? You have the book. You don’t need him.”

“As it happens, Boss disagrees with your expert opinion on the matter.”

“Disagrees how?”

“Wants to meet the bloke.”

“What? Why?” Crowley’s heart pounded in his ears. He couldn’t have heard right. Why would Lucifer want to see Azira? What good would it do?

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Ligur said. “And I sure as hell ain’t askin. But be my guest, Mr. Curiosity. See if he don’t kill you as dead as the damn cat that dragged you in.”

Crowley stopped pacing. “Fine. When?”

“Tomorrow. At the club. Nine p.m. Don’t be late.”

And with the message delivered, they slunk out of the alley and back into the night, leaving Crowley alone with a caldera of remorse.


	8. Jazz and Fisticuffs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azira and Crowley tail Hastur to a jazz club, finding more than they bargained for inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to the amazing [Z A Dusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/works) for beta work above and beyond the call of duty. I couldn't do this without you, Allie! <333

Azira fidgeted as he, Anathema, and Newt studied a collection of maps that Newt had procured for them from the local shop. 

“I don’t think we’ll find anything in the old commercial district,” Anathema said. “It’s too new by at least a hundred and fifty years. Unless the scroll was moved?”

“Could it have been moved?” Newt asked, as he overlaid one of the railway maps on top of a tourist map of the antiquity sites. “If there are four trials to pass to get to the scroll, wouldn’t that make it more difficult to relocate?”

“Fair point,” Anathema said, chewing her bottom lip as she pulled out a few of the postcards she’d bought from the telegraph office the day before.

“I’m sorry,” Azira broke in, looking at Newt. “You really have no idea where he might be?”

Newt shook his head. “I wouldn’t worry about it, professor. He often disappears for days at a time. He’ll be back.”

“But… _when_?” 

Newt raised an eyebrow at Anathema, who shrugged back at him.

“It’s just that we got in a bit of an argument last night, and I haven’t had a chance… That is, I wouldn’t want him to think—”

Azira bit off the rest of the sentence as the door to the loft clicked open, the hinges squealing as footsteps sounded on the stairs.

“Morning,” Crowley said, as if not a thing was wrong.

Azira’s nerves burnt up into irritation. “You didn’t come back last night,” he said, trying and failing to modulate his tone into mere observation rather than accusation.

“Well spotted,” Crowley said. “Figured I’d give you some breathing room.”

“You could have told someone where you were going,” Azira said, his tone sharpening against his will. He cast about for any excuse other than his own anxiety. “Newt was worried sick.”

Azira immediately regretted the obvious ploy, as Newt fought a smile.

“That so?” Crowley said, sardonically. “Well, I apologize. I’ll be sure to leave my whereabouts with Newt in future.”

As Crowley wandered over to join them at the table, maps and pictures spread over every available inch of surface area, Azira cleared his throat and said in a softer tone, “I’m glad you’re back.”

Crowley fixed him with an inscrutable gaze for half a heartbeat, and then shifted his attention to the maps.

“Come up with anything while I was out?” he asked the group at large.

The last of Azira’s tension flooded out of him, and he leaned into the chair back for support. It was bloody ridiculous how much his tiff with Crowley had affected him. Focus on the end of the arrangement, he told himself. This is temporary. Don’t get too attached. After all, he’d got too attached to James, and _that_ had ended in disaster. 

“Nothing concrete,” Anathema said. “I’ve started rewriting my mother’s journal from memory, beginning with the passages that seemed most relevant.”

“You memorized the entire book?” Crowley said, sounding impressed.

“I’ve studied it every day for as long as I’ve known how to read. It would be more noteworthy if I _hadn’t_ memorized it all.”

“Eh, point taken,” he said. Then he pointed to the area Newt had circled in red. “What’s this?”

“The Old Port,” Newt chimed in. “It’s where the warehouse stood, the one that burned down in Caesar’s attack. We figured since the journal referenced the burning, it’d be a good place to start looking for clues”

“Looking for clues?” Crowley said. “How do you suppose that’s going to work? A big red sign saying “all seekers after wisdom, come this way to find the scroll that kills the world?”

“We have to start somewhere. At least until I finish transcribing the book,” Anathema said.

“Or until we find the scoundrels who took it,” Azira added. “Any luck with that, by the way? I assume that was your errand last night?”

Crowley shot him a glance that clearly said “I don’t have to tell you everything,” but he sounded almost casual when he answered.

“I did actually find a bit of a lead on that wanker Hastur. Seems he’s been frequenting a nearby jazz club.”

“A jazz club?” Azira said, puzzled. “He hardly seems the sort to enjoy... Oh, never mind. We know where he is, that’s all that matters. Could we go there tonight? Head him off at the pass, as it were?”

Crowley shrugged. “Worth a try.”

Which was how Azira found himself, several hours later, waving away the choking exhaust fumes of idling cars while standing beneath an ostentatious marquee proudly boasting the name of The Papyrus in three-foot tall letters, picked out in round lights.

Crowley wore the same suit, freshly laundered, that he’d worn after the attack on the train. Meanwhile Madam Tracy had lent Azira a three-piece zoot suit left behind by one of the brothel’s many clients. The suit fitted well enough, Azira supposed, but it was baggy in odd places and too tight at the ankles, and it made him feel like he was someone else entirely.

Crowley had given him an appreciative once over that made Azira’s face burn. But Azira was sure it was more for the quality of the suit itself and not at all how it looked on Azira in particular. 

Crowley had elbowed them into line behind at least two or three dozen other patrons. Azira hated having to wait, given how much hung in the balance, but as long as they were stuck, maybe now was a good time to address the elephant in the room.

“Listen, Crowley,” Azira said, a touch too abruptly. “I...owe you an apology.”

Crowley twitched in surprise, folding his arms in front of him. “You don’t. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing if you felt you had to leave.”

“That’s not why I—”

“Please, dear boy, just let me get this off my chest, and then we can move on with our evening.”

Crowley gestured for Azira to continue.

“I was overly harsh last night over what I’m sure was a simple mistake. I shouldn’t have carried on like that. I really don’t know what came over me. I am usually much better at reining in my temper, and I will do so in future.”

“S’alright, Dr. Fell. It’s fine. I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.”

Azira let out a breath he’d been holding for the last four hours. “Oh, good. I would hate to think I’d damaged our partnership.”

“Partnership?” Crowley said, an odd catch in his voice.

“Of course. You’re the adventurer, I’m the academic. We need each other if we’re to succeed in this endeavor.”

Crowley swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing noticeably. “I suppose, you’re right.”

“Anyway, I really don’t care i-if you want to call me something other than Dr. Fell. I just… I mean, it seems silly to insist on such formality, given everything that’s happened.”

Crowley cleared his throat, tucking his hands in his pockets as he scuffed the pavement with his shoe.

“S’my turn, I guess,” he said, not quite looking at Azira.

“Your turn? What do you have to apologize for?”

“My part of last night. I— Well, I should have known you wouldn’t be comfortable, that you’re not from commoner stock like everyone else I know, including me, and, I oughtn’t to have tried to—”

“Please, stop,” Azira said, now even more embarrassed, if that were possible. “I’m not aristocratic, I’m just awkward.”

Crowley’s eyebrow bent an arc of skepticism over the rim of his glasses.

“Look,” Azira continued. “We’re in this together - on our own side one might say - so let’s just put the rest behind us, alright?”

Crowley blew out an exaggerated breath, his shoulders sagging. “Yeah, alright. I can do that.”

And in the space of a heartbeat, the air had cleared between them. Azira felt ten pounds lighter and proud of himself for making the effort.

Then Crowley tipped his chin towards the front of the line. Azira looked just in time to see Hastur bypass the bouncer and enter the club.

“He’s here,” Azira said, his heart jumping. He started to push his way past the people blocking his path, but Crowley stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t spook him. He won’t have the book on him. We have to let him lead us to it.”

Azira hmphed but obeyed. He knew Crowley was right, but he was eager to catch up to Hastur. Crowley withdrew his hand then, and Azira sturdily ignored that he could still feel the heat it had left behind.

“Fifteen piastras each, gentlemen,” the bouncer grumbled at them when they _finally_ reached the front of the line.

Crowley dug through his pockets and handed over the coins for both him and Azira, and for once, Azira kept his objections to himself. No point in starting another argument over something so trivial. 

“Thank you, my dear,” Azira said when they’d passed the velvet ropes and into the dark cave of the club’s entrance. 

Crowley grumbled something noncommittal in response, and led Azira to a table in a shadowed portion towards the fringes of the seating area before heading back to the bar to order their drinks. 

The black and white chessboard-like dance floor was already filled with a happy crowd moving gaily in rhythm with the big-band playing on stage. The din was raucous but not loud enough to preclude conversation at the more remote tables, for which Azira was grateful. Watching the dancers bend and whirl was diverting, but it would start to wear thin the more it drove home the point that Azira would never be able to dance that openly with a person he loved.

“Woolgathering, angel?” Crowley asked when he returned to the table and chose the chair next to Azira rather than across.

Azira suppressed a smile at hearing the nickname, which in his mind counted as proof that their silly argument had worked itself out. 

“I was just thinking…”

“Yes?”

“Why have Anathema sneak around looking for the book? Newt’s more familiar with the territory.”

Crowley snorted. “Have you seen Newt try and sneak around anywhere?”

“No,” Azira admitted.

“Let’s just say that Tracy in her brightest, most colorful garb would attract less attention than Newt attempting to be sneaky. Besides, women are more often overlooked in these places, as long as they’re not wearing too much ice.”

“Ice?” 

“Diamonds. Glittery bits. You know.”

“Ah. It appears I am behind on the modern lingo.” Azira craned his neck to get the lay of the land. “I don’t see our quarry, do you? What if he’s seen us and slipped out the back?”

“Don’t worry,” Crowley said, lightly kicking Azira’s foot under the table. “I’m certain he’s here somewhere. You are very cunningly disguised, after all. There’s no way he’d have recognized you.”

“I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult,” Azira said, taking another sip of wine and making a show of examining the menu.

“Just a bit of teasing, perhaps. You have to admit the suit looks good.” 

“The fabric is well made, I suppose,” Azira allowed, not even acknowledging the nagging thought that Crowley could mean what he’d said any other way. 

“Can I take your order, gentlemen?” said a familiar voice in an American accent.

“Ah, yes,” Azira said, nearly jumping out of his chair. 

He’d been expecting Anathema to make contact, and yet her being there had still surprised him. Or perhaps not _surprised_ so much as unnerved. Nothing said _clandestine_ like two people long acquainted pretending not to know each other.

She set the drinks Crowley had ordered at the bar in front of them--a scotch for Crowley and a glass of chardonnay for himself.

“May I recommend the sole in hollandaise sauce? It is our special for the evening.”

“Thank you. I believe I’ll have the mulukhiya, please.”

She jotted his order onto a notepad she pulled from her bedazzled apron, which was part of the uniform of the club’s service staff. How she’d gotten it, Azira hadn’t the faintest idea, but he admired her ingenuity.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” Crowley said without even glancing at the menu.

Anathema jotted that down as well as she said just loud enough for the two of them to hear over the music, “Something fishy is going on backstage. Couldn’t get close enough before being chased off. I think that’s where we should start looking.”

Azira nodded, giving her a significant look while still pretending to be perusing the menu.

“You make an excellent point, my dear. Perhaps I’ll have the eish baladi as well,” Azira said loudly and looked around to see if anyone was taking notice of them.

Crowley chuckled softly as he sipped his scotch, and Anathema gathered their menus and left.

“Looking forward to dinner?” Crowley said with a sardonic grin.

“I’m sure it’s not as delicious as the koshary,” Azira said. “Which, by the way, was just as divine last night as it was in Cairo.”

“Pepper’s an astute understudy.”

“Thank you for that. For bringing me… I appreciate…” Azira trailed off, face burning again for no reason whatsoever.

Crowley waved him off. “Putting it behind us, remember?”

“Right, of course,” Azira said, taking a large gulp of wine. “So what _exactly_ is the plan for when we catch the villain?”

“Just let me do the talking,” Crowley said, tossing back the last of his scotch and signaling the bartender for a refill.

“I can be persuasive when I try,” Azira said, a trifle testily. Crowley snorted, a rather appealing grin curving into place. Azira’s heart thudded painfully before resuming its normal cadence. 

“You doubt me?” Azira asked to cover for his libertine heart.

“Not at all,” Crowley replied, his grin turning decidedly suggestive. “I’m positive you can be quite compelling. I have fallen under your spell myself a time or two, and I am not easily bamboozled.”

“Bamboozled? I beg your pardon. I have never _bamboozled_ you.”

Crowley chuckled. “Tempted, then. You can’t deny that.”

Azira snorted, picking up his wine glass. “Isn’t that your job?”

Crowley chuckled, dropping his gaze to the tablecloth. 

Dinner arrived then, saving Azira from having to figure out a way to steer the conversation back into safer waters. Gratefully, he tucked his napkin into his lap, putting all other thought out of his mind for the time being, and scooped up a full spoon of the spice-laden stew.

“Mmmm,” he moaned, his eyes fluttering closed as he placed the spoon in his mouth. He made a mental note to procure some of the more prominent spices to bring home with him to Oxford if he somehow managed to survive the next few weeks.

Without his permission, his gaze flitted to Crowley, as if he were physically incapable of resting it anywhere else for long when Crowley was present. Crowley, meanwhile, stared back at him, chin in hand, instead of scanning the room for their nemesis.

“Aren’t you meant to be looking for Hastur?” Azira prompted.

“Mhm?” Crowley said, seemingly completely preoccupied.

“Hastur? The objective of our current undertaking?”

“Right,” Crowley said, straightening in his chair and then immediately slouching against the back of it. “Haven’t seen him, I’m afraid.”

“And you’re still not worried he’s left without us noticing?” Azira said just before taking another bite.

“No. He’s here.”

“How can you—?”

“Ladies and gents, how are we this evening?” 

_Oh, no_.

Azira swiveled towards the stage to see Hastur, of all people, at the microphone in front of the band, addressing the clapping crowd.

“Just a few announcements, if I may.”

The audience whooped and cheered as if he were a beloved entertainer.

“Simmer down, you lot. You’re making it take longer.”

The crowd laughed, eating up every word. 

“First, I’m to welcome you sodding parasites to the Papyrus. Buy our overpriced drinks, or the bouncer will kick you out the fucking door.”

More laughter greeted this threat.

“Second, downstairs is off limits to you buggers. Employees only. Don’t know why I have to keep saying this. Perhaps you’re all too stupid to follow simple instructions. If I catch you going near the stairwell again, I’ll burn this place to the ground with you inside. Is that clear?”

Whistles and catcalling signaled the crowd’s surprising agreement to this insulting edict. Azira was amazed there wasn’t more grumbling, or at least confusion, amongst the patrons at this rough treatment, but they seemed to revel in it.

“And third, would Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell please join us backstage so that we can wallop the daylights out of you?”

The crowd laughed and hollered again, clearly believing this parting request to be just a rude joke. Azira was far from sure that was the case.

“Well, you were right,” Azira said, dropping his napkin over his half-eaten mulukhiyah. “Hastur never left.”

Crowley stood up, pressing his hand to his chest to keep his tie from trailing in his untouched food as he rose from his seat. Then he gestured for Azira to stay behind him as he led the way to the edge of the stage and behind the curtain.

Azira followed Crowley closely enough to smell his aftershave. He desperately wanted to reach out and touch the small of Crowley’s back for reassurance, but he managed to restrain himself. Instead he swallowed his fear of the unknown and swept behind the curtain, nearly running into Crowley in his haste to follow.

“What is it?” Azira whispered. “Why have we stopped?”

“Can’t see a bloody thing back here,” Crowley stage-whispered back.

“Maybe take your glasses off?” Azira suggested.

Crowley snorted but complied with Azira’s advice. After a moment, he began moving again.

Azira spent more time picking through the off-stage set detritus and instrument paraphernalia than he did paying attention to where they were going. He didn’t want to trip over anything in the near total darkness and cause a scene, and he trusted Crowley to get them where they needed to be safely.

After traversing what seemed an impossible labyrinth, Crowley finally led them to a descending staircase.

“Downstairs?” Azira muttered.

Crowley didn’t answer, but he didn’t really have to. Azira nodded, and Crowley stepped onto the first stair. 

As they descended, the air got noticeably cooler and damper. It would have been a welcome reprieve from the electric heat of the club, but Azira was in a cold sweat as it was, so the damp chill wasn’t doing much for him.

At the foot of the stairs was a heavy door, cracked open, that Crowley pushed through with Azira close on his heels. Having no idea what to expect, Azira had preemptively balled his hands into fists. But nothing jumped out at them from the opposite side. It was as dark as backstage but for a column of light from another door left ajar bleaching the floor at the far end of the hallway.

“Be ready, angel,” Crowley said softly.

“Ready for what?” 

“Anything.”

It took altogether too little time to reach the end of the hallway and that column of light. And when they did, there was indeed someone waiting for them.

“Come in,” said a deep voice with an ominous timbre.

Crowley complied without hesitation, so Azira followed, as he’d followed before. Crowley would not lead him into a dangerous situation. At least, not more dangerous than the situation he was already in by his own doing. And if things turned dangerous, he trusted Crowley to pull him out of harm’s way, just as he had on the train and in the alley.

The room was little more than a dungeon. The bare bulb overhead threw more shadows on the wall than it illuminated. The furniture was spare, the linoleum covered in…was that soot? In any case, it was very dirty. And there were no windows of any kind.

The man behind the heavy desk towards the back of the room loomed large over it, over the whole room, in fact. His presence felt immense enough to loom over the whole establishment. The shadows behind him, lent form by swirls of cigar smoke, cast an echo of immense, monstrous wings. And his skin in the dim light glowed faintly red. 

“Well, if it isn’t the infamous Dr. Fell,” the man rumbled in a voice so searing Azira thought he must surely have a furnace for lungs.

Azira’s heart stuttered at the sound of his name, but he straightened and adjusted his waistcoat. He _was_ the infamous Dr. Fell, after all, and this man was just a man, not the devil himself.

“I am, and you are?” he said with a much steadier voice than he’d hoped for.

“My name is Lucifer L'étoile du Matin. I am the owner of the Papyrus Club.”

“I assume Hastur works for you?” Azira continued, emboldened by the fact that no one had tried to hit him yet. “Because I have a complaint to lodge against him.”

“Do you now?”

“Angel…” Crowley said, placing a warning hand on Azira’s arm. Azira, as far as it was possible to do so, ignored him.

“Yes, he attacked me. In a dingy alley, no less. And he took something of mine. I would very much like it back.”

He stepped a few paces forward as he said this, only noticing as he drew closer the familiar looking book lying open on Lucifer’s desk.

“It wouldn’t happen to be this exquisite journal, would it?”

Lucifer stroked the cover’s edge with a talon-like fingernail, a predatory smile on his face. Azira swallowed again, his confidence all but abandoning him. Regardless, Azira edged closer to the desk, his eyes cast down in mock submission but also in study. 

He knew he’d not have a chance against Lucifer if he attempted to take the book by force. Lucifer was easily a head and a half taller than him, broader in shoulder, and more muscular. Azira had softened since his boxing days. He might still be able to defend himself against a more evenly matched opponent. But even at the top of his game, he could never have bested someone like Lucifer. 

And he was hardly at the top of his game physically now. He was soft. And he liked it that way. He was far more useful for his brain than his brawn, which had almost always been the case. And if he used his brain, he might come away with something of value, even if it wasn’t the book itself. He continued to present a meek, easily cowed countenance, shifting closer still to the demon’s desk. 

“I appreciate your finding it for me,” Azira said, still playing the game. “It is the family heirloom of a very dear colleague of mine. She will be relieved at its safe return.”

“And yet, I think I’ll hold onto it a while longer,” Lucifer said, with an easy smile that still put Azira in mind of a row of cut-throat razors. “It intrigues me. It tells of many fascinating, and perhaps useful, ancient artifacts.”

“Agnes Nutter was a visionary,” Azira acknowledged. “But I’m afraid the journal is not for sale.”

“How convenient,” Lucifer said with malicious amiability. “Since I wasn’t suggesting that I would buy it.”

“Then you will keep it by force?” Azira risked. His gaze flicked up to assess whether Lucifer had caught on to the purpose of Azira’s advances, but so far the man seemed oblivious.

“I will keep it as a safeguard. One never knows what might happen in such an _unpredictable_ country as Egypt.”

Azira was close enough by then to scan the book’s pages, making special note of the numbers and illustrations on the page. It was upside-down, but that didn’t matter to Azira’s photographic memory. He would be able to reconstitute the pages now that he’d seen them. 

“As a matter of fact,” their host continued. “I would like to extend an invitation to you. You would be a valuable asset to our team.”

“Your team?” Azira said, going cold. 

The door shut with a loud click behind them. Azira whirled at the sound to see Hastur, the other man from the alley, and three others besides in a threatening semi-circle behind Crowley. 

“There are few Egyptologists of your breadth and depth of knowledge, especially of the relevant time period for what we seek,” Lucifer said, leaning over his desk, the smoke from his cigar swirling around him. “We would, of course, pay you a handsome salary.”

“And what exactly would you need me to do?” Azira asked, stalling for time. How did one find a way out of a windowless room with a door blocked by a gang of thugs?

“Just read. Research. Easy for one with such extensive experience as yourself. And we would make it well worth your while.”

“I am not generally persuaded by pecuniary interests,” Azira admitted. “It is the work that calls me.”

“Well, there will be plenty of that, as well. More knowledge and resources at your fingertips than the Ancient Library of Alexandria itself.”

The buzzing panic in Azira’s ears suddenly stopped. All was quiet. Nothing moved. It was as if Azira had been torn out of time by the silver-tongued devil’s temptation. More knowledge than the millions of scrolls of ancient wisdom housed in one of the greatest libraries the world had ever known? And even more tempting, the complete freedom from his family to pursue it? Azira had never been more enticed by anything in his life…except…

_…fingertips on the bars of dark glasses…tigers-eye squares on a chessboard…a rakish grin…_

_“Whatever you want, angel…”_

Azira shook his head to clear it of the thick fog of smoke and desire, the illusion shattering in his mind as he did so. Even if this man could deliver on his claim, the price he would ask was too great. Azira would never turn a blind eye while the world burned, while his friends suffered and perhaps died. It was unthinkable.

Azira firmed his shoulders, squaring off against his opponent.

“I shall take your offer under advisement,” he said shortly. “For now, I shall take my leave. You have given me a lot to ponder.”

Lucifer laughed, making every hair on Azira’s body stand on end. “I’m afraid you misunderstand. My use of the word _invitation_ was meant to soothe any anxiety you might be feeling. It wasn’t meant to be taken literally.”

“Oh?” Azira said, unsurprised.

“You will help us and be rewarded for doing so. There is no other option.”

“I see,” Azira said, lamely. He had run out of time.

“Hastur, Ligur,” Lucifer said, snapping his fingers. “Show the professor to his room.”

Lucifer sat back in his chair with a dismissive wave of his hand, a clear dismissal to the group as a whole.

Hastur and the other thug from the alley each took one of Azira’s arms and hustled him through the door.

“Where are you taking him?” Crowley demanded, striding towards them, even as another of Lucifer’s guards grabbed him from behind. 

“None of your business, snake eyes.”

Sounds of a scuffle behind him followed by a meaty thud set Azira’s heart pounding. He struggled to free himself from his captors’ grasp, to at least turn enough to see what was happening. But when he did manage to turn, just in time to see Crowley slumped and bleeding in the other guard’s arms, his courage almost failed him.

“Stop it!” He struggled harder, earning himself a nasty wrench to his shoulder by the cretin Hastur. “Leave him alone. He has nothing to do with this! Just let him go.”

“Not going anywhere,” Crowley said, tone breathless but expression set with resolve. 

“You must,” Azira said, fumbling around in his mind for something he could say that would force Crowley to leave. “I am hereby rescinding our arrangement.” Hastur yanked him further down the hall away from Crowley. “You are no longer employed by the White Dove Foundation.”

“You’re _firing_ me?” Crowley said, flummoxed. “Right now, you’re firing me.”

“Yes! Get out of here, you stupid man.”

“I don’t think so.”

Hastur pushed Azira closer to the wall. With a spark of inspiration and barely a thought to the consequences, Azira leaned his entire weight back against Hastur, lifting both feet to the wall and pressing back with all his strength. Unprepared for the maneuver, Hastur and Ligur fell backward, losing their grip on Azira as they stumbled. 

Azira twisted free with one hard pull, spinning on his back foot and throwing a right hook at Crowley’s opponent. His fist met its target with explosive speed. The man’s head flew backwards, followed by his limp body, and he collapsed to the floor, out cold.

“Fuck!” Azira cursed as the impact rippled through the bones and muscles of his hand. Punching with the protection of a glove was difficult enough. Without it… Azira cradled his injured hand against his chest as he helped Crowley to his feet.

“Come on, Pulsifer,” Crowley muttered, looking at his wristwatch.

“He isn’t here,” Azira reminded him. “Let’s go!”

But Lucifer’s forces were already regrouping and closing in, and the hallway left little room for them to dodge and none at all to hide.

Azira spun to place his back to Crowley’s, gripping his injured hand into a fist despite the discomfort. He didn’t like his chances, two to five, even without Lucifer interceding, which he could do at any moment. 

“If we don’t prevail,” Azira said over his shoulder. “It was an honor knowing you.”

Crowley backed closer to him. “Do you trust me?”

“What?”

“Do you—?” 

Before he could finish, there was a thundering noise from above. It was so loud that the vibration carried through the hallway, the sound quickly followed by panicked screams from the patrons above. 

“What the—?” Ligur said.

The door from the stairwell burst open, as well as doors from all sides, forced from their hinges as a small stampede of riderless horses came barreling through them. They floundered to a stop in the limited space available and then churned in place, squealing and stamping their hooves. 

Crowley took advantage of the distraction as if he’d been expecting it. He grabbed Azira’s arm and pulled him through a side door Azira hadn’t noticed in the gloom. Crowley elbowed one of the horses aside to squeeze through a small passageway that led out into the night air, moon above, and people milling all around, as if a herd of horses stampeding a club wasn’t all that uncommon. 

“What in the blazes—?”

But before Azira could finish his question, before he could get his bearings, or even assess himself or Crowley for further injury, Hastur emerged from the door they’d just exited, gun pointed straight at Crowley’s back. 

Without thinking, Azira pushed Crowley to one side, just as something unseen pushed his shoulder hard, knocking him backwards a few paces. The pain and flood of hot wetness down his sleeve registered in his brain at the same time as the sound of a loud rapport issuing from Hastur’s gun. Still, it took Azira’s overstimulated faculties another few seconds to register what had happened as he pressed his opposite hand to the wound.

He blinked, slowly, down at Crowley and said, “Oh. I’ve been shot.” 

Then his head went all funny, static and cotton and a hot breeze, and then the ground was rushing up towards his face, and—


	9. Recovery and Reconnaissance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale takes advantage of his recuperation to give the rest of his team the slip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my amazing beta [Z A Dusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/works).

The second Azira blinked, his eyes bleary and unfocused, Crowley abandoned his incessant pacing to rush to the couch.

“Angel. You awake?”

“Hmm?” Azira said, his voice rough with sleep.

Crowley cast about for the fresh bowl of water Anathema had left. Seizing it from the coffee table where it sat next to his uneaten breakfast, he grabbed a clean rag and dipped it in the bowl. He squeezed it to mere dampness before pressing it to Azira’s forehead. Not that it did much. Azira’s sweat had long since been cleaned and dried, his bruised hand assessed and splinted, his bullet graze disinfected and bandaged. But Crowley wiped his brow anyway. He couldn’t do nothing.

“Anathema?” Azira said, drawing out the syllables longer than he normally would.

“Is fine,” Crowley jumped in. “Newt pulled her out before herding in the horses.”

“Newt? Horses?”

Crowley paused, not really sure what Azira was asking. “…yeah. Sorry. Shoulda told you ‘bout the backup plan. I had a hunch we might need a distraction.”

“Crowley?”

“Yes, angel,” Crowley said, sighing and settling onto the floor next to the couch, setting the cloth back in the bowl. “I’m here.”

Azira blinked a bit harder, groaning. He shifted on the couch, grimacing as his injuries made themselves known. He struggled to push himself up to sitting.

“Just keep still.”

Azira gave up moving but rolled his eyes towards Crowley, clearly irritated by his situation.

“That ruffian shot me,” Azira said in the way a country lord might say that a stable hand had insulted him. 

“Just a graze,” Crowley assured him. “It’ll smart for a few days, but it’s not serious.”

“It’ll smart for a few days?” Azira said, his gaze turning flinty. “My arm feels like it’s on fire.”

“Yes, alright. But it’s not going to fall off.”

Azira snorted and flexed his injured hand. “Nothing broken?”

“Don’t think so. Tracy was a nurse in the war. She bound it up to keep it from moving too much, but she thinks it’ll heal on its own. More a deep bruise, maybe some tearing of the cartilage. Says you can use it more normally in a day or so but to treat it gingerly till then.”

Azira heaved a loud sigh. “This is not optimal.”

“No,” Crowley said quietly, his gut roiling with anger and guilt. “It’s not.”

Azira resumed his struggle to sit up. “Help me, won’t you?”

“You should rest.”

“I need to make use of the facilities. The rest of my body is just fine, you know. It’s only that I can’t push myself up with my hands.”

Crowley grumbled as he obliged, sliding his arms carefully under Azira’s back to lever him up to a sitting position.

“Thank you, dear boy,” he said, pulling away quickly from Crowley’s touch. “Won’t be a minute.”

“How are you going to—?” Crowley started as Azira got a bit unsteadily to his feet.

“I’ll be fine,” Azira said sharply, shuffling around the coffee table as if he were slightly inebriated. “Tickety-boo.” Which, Crowley was learning, was angel-speak for the opposite of tickety-boo.

The door to the loo slammed shut, and Crowley collapsed onto the still-warm couch, hands over his face.

What a mess. What a goddamned, fucking mess. Fucking Hastur. Crowley’d had the whole thing under control until that fucking moron had decided to go rogue. Just a warning shot, sure, and Crowley was King fucking Tut. Hastur hated Crowley, and the feeling was blindingly mutual. Thank Satan the moron hadn’t hit any vital part of Azira, or Crowley really would have killed him, rather than simply giving him a shiner to match Azira’s. Bloody bastard.

They were  _ all _ bloody bastards, and Crowley didn’t trust them farther than he could throw them. But until further notice, he worked for them. Which meant scaring Azira into going home. That had been Lucifer’s plan. A stupid plan, at that, and Crowley’d told him as much. Kidnap the man and force him to work with you? That would never work on Azira. Scare him off by nearly gunning him down while he was attempting to get away? Also would never work on Azira. “More obstinate than a pack of pigheaded mules” was about the closest one could get to describing one Dr. Azira Fell. 

Crowley’d have to be clever if he wanted to keep his promises to both Azira and Lucifer. Luckily, he had a plan. A much better plan than either kidnapping or terrorizing. A plan that, if all went as it should, would keep Azira busy chasing illusions while Lucifer found the stupid scroll. 

Of course, that also meant standing back and letting Lucifer and his lackeys obtain catastrophically destructive power. Crowley wasn’t sure how he felt about that now. Before, he wouldn’t have cared overmuch if the world ended up in a puddle of burning of goo. He’d seen first hand how petty hate, fear, and stupidity lead to torment and death. He’d nearly been a casualty of his own stupidity in standing up to that hate and fear. He’d been a footsoldier to War and dared to question it and had barely escaped with his life. After that, he’d lost even the fair-to-middling faith he'd had in the world.

But now… Now, he’d lived through seeing Azira Fell, covered in blood, collapsing to the ground unconscious. And that could never happen again. Ever.

Speaking of Azira, what was taking him so long?

“You alright, angel?” Crowley called from the couch, confident that Azira could hear him through the door.

“I’m fine!” Azira shouted back, his voice muffled but his irritation loud and clear.

Crowley sighed. Azira was obviously not entirely past the bath incident. Though neither was Crowley, to be honest. Crowley rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses, picturing for the thousandth time the expanse of pure, alabaster skin, delicately flushed like the finest marble, muscles tense along his solid frame. Ngggh. And then the  _ suit _ . Damn Tracy to the pits of Tartarus for digging it out of whatever Crowley-torture-chamber she had hidden away in this place. The  _ braces, _ for Satan’s sake. 

Made no earthly sense whatsoever. He barely had any sexual experience at all, let alone with men. He’d just always had more important things to worry about—work, the war, surviving the aftermath of the war. And that was still very much the case. Whatever was going on with his body’s sudden descent into lechery would have to shove off until after all this business with the scroll was over. Even then, he was a fool to think Azira would actually return his feelings. Not when he'd been actively lying to him from the beginning and in league with his enemies besides. 

“Angel, you’d better come out in the next five seconds, or I’m coming in!”

“I expressly forbid you to do any such thing!”

“How do I know you haven’t fallen in?”

“I—! I will have you know, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself!” Azira’s voice was getting louder, which meant he must be approaching the door. “Fallen in…” Azira muttered still audibly as he eased the door open with his non-injured hand.

“There you are,” Crowley said, feigning a lightness he didn’t feel. “I was about to send in a search party.”

Azira fixed him with a cool glare and made his way to the table, where he half-collapsed into a chair.

“You’re meant to be resting. For the remainder of the day at the very least. Doctor’s orders.”

“I am a doctor, and I say I don’t need any more resting.”

Azira pulled over a mostly blank piece of scrap paper and a pencil and began drawing with his injured hand.

“Stop! What are you doing, you idiot? You’ll hurt it worse!” Crowley said, jumping to his feet and hurrying over like a bloody nursemaid. He had no control over his limbs at bloody all anymore.

“It’s my dominant hand, Crowley, what else am I supposed to do?”

“Give me the damn thing,” Crowley groused, snatching the pencil, though carefully avoiding touching Azira. “What do you want written?”

Azira tensed for a moment, then relented. “I saw the pages of the journal when it was open on Lucifer’s desk. I can recreate it from memory.”

“I thought that was Book-Girl’s job.”

“She knows the text but not necessarily the other elements on the page. The numbers, the images, the colors. I have a photographic memory, which means if I see it for long enough, I remember every detail. And if Lucifer had left the book open to that page—”

“Then it may be significant,” Crowley finished, his heart sinking. Azira wasn’t going to make it easy for Crowley to throw him off the scent.

Azira sighed, already looking tired. “I haven’t asked if…” He laid his bandaged hand on Crowley’s knee. “Are you alright? After last night?”

Crowley blinked at him, completely taken back. No one had ever cared about his well being enough to ask after it in his entire life. Not even Newt, who looked up to him, first, as his commanding officer, and now as his boss. He expected Crowley to be alright. He’d never asked.

“I beg your pardon?” he managed to eke out.

“Are you alright? One of the guards… he hit you.”

Crowley blinked again. He’d already forgotten about that. Sandalphon had hit him. It had hurt at the time, of course, but it had barely left a mark. Crowley had earned his fair share of hideous scars from his stint in the war, and phantom pain to match them. A split lip was nothing by comparison.

“I’m fine, angel,” he said softly, not knowing what else to say.

“Good,” Azira said, sagging a little further in his seat. “I was worried.”

Crowley stared at him for another full minute before Azira roused himself enough to say, “I am rather peckish, dear. Did I see some form of breakfast on the coffee table, or was I just dreaming?”

“I’ll get it,” Crowley said, hopping up to grab the plate he’d barely touched and bring it back to Azira, laying it gently on the table in front of him.

Azira smiled gratefully up at Crowley, and Crowley’s heart stuttered to a complete stop. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe, and it was glorious. He nearly collapsed to the floor as his legs tried to give up supporting him. Who knew a smile could  _ look _ like that? Could make him  _ feel _ — 

_ Oh, fuuuuuuuuck. _

Crowley was in love.

*

Azira polished off the last of the cold oatmeal. It had congealed a bit, and was sticking to the roof of his mouth rather unpleasantly, but he’d been hungry enough that he almost didn’t mind. He was still hungry, truth be told. It must be well past tea time.

“Better, angel?” Crowley asked, putting the finishing touches on the sketch of the stone statue.

“Yes, perfect.” Azira beamed at him. Or at least, as close to beamed as he could manage, given the plethora of aches and pains all over his body. “I don’t know the significance, yet, of course. We need to consult with Anathema. But I believe we have enough here to give her a place to start.”

“What’s our next move, then?”

Azira leaned on the table to support himself and immediately regretted it as the pressure zinged through his elbow and into his shoulder, causing his wound to pulse unpleasantly. 

“The docks,” Azira said, though his voice sounded thinner than normal.

“Not today,” Crowley said, standing up and stretching, his button-down shirt pulling an inch out of his waistband tantalizingly.

“What do you mean, not today?”

“Newt, Anathema, and I will handle it.”

Azira scowled up at him. How was it possible that he actually found this bossy meddler attractive?

“Let me remind you who it was that saved your life last night. Not Anathema, nor Newt, nor Tracy, nor Pepper, nor anyone else. I did. I don’t need you to mollycoddle me.”

“Let  _ me _ remind  _ you _ that Lucifer is looking to either recruit or neutralize you. We’d be far less likely to run into trouble in the first place if you’re not there.”

That stung. And it must have shown on his face, because Crowley immediately softened. 

“Look, angel, it’s not us I’m worried about, alright? I need you to stay here. Just for today.”

Azira felt painfully small. Even softened, Crowley’s rebuke hit home. Azira had put them all at risk, numerous times. Not the least of which being that it was  _ his fault _ these men were looking for the scroll in the first place. Azira was the idiot who’d published the damned paper about the Lyre Letter all those months ago. He should have known better. He  _ had _ known better. He’d felt it was wrong even as he’d submitted the article for publication. Some secrets were meant to stay buried.

“Don’t look like that. I don’t blame you for any of this.”

“You should,” Azira said. “You wouldn’t have been nearly shot last night if my brother hadn’t hired you.”

“Eh, I’ve been nearly shot many times, so it’s nothing new,” Crowley said. “Worse is you being actually shot. I almost…” Crowley trailed off.

“You almost what, dear?” Azira said, his eyelids feeling heavier each moment that passed.

“Never mind,” Crowley said. “You look knackered. It’s bed for you.”

Azira put up a token resistance, but Crowley eventually badgered him back into his room, where he collapsed fully clothed on top of the coverlet. He wiggled around till he found a somewhat less agonizing position in which to lay, and then promptly fell asleep.

Hours later, he woke to the dying light of the setting sun blazing through his west-facing window directly onto his face. He groaned, raising his left hand to rub the sleep out of his eyes. The wound in his upper arm pulled, the muscles tight and sore, but he could move the extremity with much more ease than he could that morning. Rest had been helpful, though he was loathe to confess that to Crowley. He’d likely never be allowed out of the brothel again.

He yawned and sat up, flexing the hand he’d injured punching Crowley’s captor. He supposed he and Crowley were even now, in terms of life-saving incidents. It was probably best he kept score. Better to not let Crowley get too far ahead of him in that department. He did not need a life-debt on top of everything else. He sighed and got to his feet.

Stretching his neck till he heard it pop, he then gathered up his clothes and headed for the bathroom. He desperately needed a wash after last night’s catastrophe, whether Crowley was present in the flat or not. 

Azira opened the door to an empty suite and breathed a sigh of relief. Crowley and the rest of the team were likely off investigating the docks. With any luck, they’d find something of note. But it was far more probable that they wouldn’t. 

It didn’t matter in any case, there was somewhere else Azira needed to be. Somewhere he knew neither Crowley nor Anathema would ever let him go on his own. 

So he’d simply sent them off in a different direction until he could get his sea legs under him. He needed to do this part alone. No one was going to get hurt going into a situation blind again. Azira would do the necessary reconnaissance on his own, and then fill in the team as needed.

Thirty minutes, and a painful yet satisfying soak later, Azira pulled himself out of the tub, toweled off, and got dressed. He left a note for Crowley, saying he’d be back and not to worry—that he’d just gone out for some air. Then he left another note under Anathema’s door with a few additional details about his true errand should something go amiss.

He snuck through the kitchen door, promising Pepper a treat if she kept quiet about his leaving. She rolled her eyes at him but agreed. And without too much fanfare, he was out on the streets of Alexandria, wincing into the low-angled sun.

As he walked, his aches and soreness grew less. The bath had helped immensely, and the bullet wound had been as Crowley said, a graze. He wouldn’t say it was  _ just _ a graze, because it had still left quite a gouge in its wake, a narrow, bloody trough where skin and muscle used to be. After his bath, he’d re-bandaged it as best he could with one only hand, and felt he’d done a fair job, all things considered.

Navigating the busy streets was somewhat less than peaceful. He twirled out of the way of an oncoming motorcar only to be nearly plowed down by a carriage. He’d need transportation if he was to reach his destination before the sun set completely, and without colliding with someone else’s vehicle. He’d just missed the trolley, so he’d have to hail a cab of some kind.

Just then, a rattletrap vehicle, which was idling louder than a collection of pots and pans tumbling off a countertop, pulled up next to him.

“Fancy a ride somewhere, governor?” a small boy no older than Pepper said as he leaned out the driver’s-side window.

“With you?” Azira said, confused. “Are you even old enough to drive?”

“Are you young enough to walk?” the scamp jibed back.

“Well, I never,” Azira sniffed. He relented, though, given that he didn’t even know which direction to take, let alone if he could get there on foot. “Alright. Thank you.”

Reluctantly, he climbed into the back seat, shutting the door with a painful squeal of hinges. 

“Name’s Adam,” the boy said. “Where you off to?”

Azira gave him the address, and with a screech of tires, the car rocketed forward, flinging Azira backwards into the back windscreen.

“Good lord. Must you go this fast, Adam?”

“S’only got two speeds - fast and stop. Hard to use the pedals with blocks tied to your feet.”

Azira looked over the seat, his heart dropping into his shoes as he confirmed that Adam had indeed tied blocks of wood to his feet in order to reach the relevant pedals.

“This is outrageous. Where are your parents?”

“Dad’s a real demon, and mum’s out of the picture,” Adam answered, wrenching the wheel to the side to avoid a rickshaw, and then wrenching it back to avoid a woman pushing a baby carriage. 

“Where did you get this motorcar then?”

“In’t she a beaut?” Adam said, grinding the gearshift into third, honking the horn, and avoiding the question. “Nineteen-twenty-six Bentley. Mint condition.”

As he said it, a loud pop sounded behind them and black smoke bellowed out from the Bentley’s tailpipe.

“Oh, yes. Flawless,” Azira said, sending a quick prayer to whatever saint had been put in charge of motorcars. 

Adam wrenched the wheel again and zipped into traffic behind a camel train. Then he cut down a side alley that was far too narrow for the car, only to spit out the other end on a boardwalk, honking at pedestrians to move out of his way as he drove over a grassy knoll and cut in front of the camel train.

“Was that absolutely necessary?” Azira said. “I’m not in a hurry.”

“Time is money, governor. Unless you want to pay more?”

“Money is no object, I assure you. Please slow down.”

“As you wish,” Adam said, letting up on the throttle.

Azira breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

Twenty minutes later, Adam pulled the Bentley to a guttering idle outside a small, rundown bungalow on the edge of the Necropolis. All the other houses on the street were dark, seemingly abandoned.

“You sure this is the place?” Adam asked. “Seems a bit dodgy, if you ask me.”

“I am sure,” Azira said, comparing the slip of paper in his memory—the one poking out just beneath the corner of Agnes’s journal on Lucifer’s desk—to the number affixed to the outside of the diminutive domicile. 

“D’you want me to wait?”

“Actually, yes,” Azira said. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not at all. Keeping the meter running, though.”

“The meter?”

“You know,” Adam said. “Cost goes up per minute, just as if I were still driving your arse around.”

Azira tsked but didn’t comment on the expletive. 

“Yes, that’s fine,” he said. 

Adam saluted and settled back into his seat, cutting the engine. 

Azira walked quickly to the front door. He pressed the buzzer, and the stomping sound of heavy boots drew closer as he waited.

The door yanked open a bare inch into the shadowy interior, and a voice with a heavy Scottish brogue said,

“What do ye want?”

It was only as Azira opened his mouth to answer that he realized he had no idea what to say. He hadn’t a clue how the inhabitants at this address were connected to Lucifer’s thugs or to the scroll, if they even were at all.

“Ah, yes. I am an Egyptologist fellow at Oxford University in England, and I am here to inquire about—”

“How many nipples have ye got?”

“I— I beg your pardon. How many…nipples?”

“Are ye a witch?”

“I’m an Egyptologist.”

“Och, so ye  _ are _ a witch?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then answer the question.”

“My dear sir, may I come in?”

“Can’t come in without an invitation, then? Are ye a vampire?”

“Why would you ask...? Never mind. No, I am a professor of antiquity. A researcher.”

“Antiquity? Like…a mummy? Ye dinnae look like a mummy.”

“I am a  _ human academic _ . I am no mythological creature of any sort, for goodness sake.”

There was a pause, in which Azira almost turned round and left, but the man finally widened the crack another inch. Azira dared hope he might get some answers after all.

“So…how many nipples have ye got?” he asked.

“Two! I just have the usual two nipples! Can I please come in?”

The man opened the door all the way and switched on the lamp sitting on a low table by the door, casting strange shadows onto his face.

“Cannae be too careful these days. Witches everywhere, ye ken. Bringin’ about the end o’ days.”

Azira’s hope returned at the ‘end of days’ comment, and he stepped inside the man’s house.

“That’s what I’m here to discuss, actually,” Azira admitted.

“Witches?”

“No, the end of days.”

“Ah, weel then, better come in. Mind the mess.”

Azira circumnavigated stacks of magazines as he followed his host towards the back of the bungalow, where he desperately hoped a chair and a cup of tea awaited him.

“Can you tell me what you know of the Apocalypse scroll?”

“Och, ye’ll no be wantin’ anything to do wi’ that, laddie. It’s a nightmare’s nightmare, that one.”

“I have no doubt. But I know others are searching for it, and I am trying to prevent them from attaining it.”

The man waved vaguely towards a kitchen chair with ripped cushions, shifting a heap of random objects from his stove to the top of another stack of random objects. Azira sat, careful to keep the sleeve of his shirt from coming into contact with the jam stain on the table next to him.

“What’s your name, laddie?”

“Dr. Fell,” Azira said, feeling a bit squeamish supplying the information before knowing for certain whether the man was working for Lucifer. “And whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

“Eh?”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell, at yer service.” 

He mucked around in a cabinet, the objects within crashing and crunching together as he searched for something. Finally, he pulled out a battered kettle that had seen better days.

“And a witchfinder is what exactly?”

“We find witches, laddie,” he said, as if Azira were being particularly dense.

“Ah.”

“So others are seekin’ the scroll?” he said as he filled the dented, tarnished kettle with water and set it on the burner.

“Yes. And I believe they wish to use its power for destruction. Which I’m sure you’ll agree no reasonable person would permit.”

“Och, weel, they’ll never get past the traps, then, will they? Best leave the scroll to its own protection.”

“If I may, how do you know so much about it?”

“Ma wife, god rest her soul. Stories passed down her line for generations. When she learnt she was dying with no bairns of our own, she told ‘em to me.”

“Oh. I am so sorry.”

“Eh? Oh. Happened twenty years ago now,” he said, waving off Azira’s sympathy. “Have ‘em in ma notes here somewhere.”

“So you’re the Keeper of the Scroll?”

“The what now?”

“Keeper. The legend speaks of a Keeper. We assumed it was a talisman, frankly. The original had been mistranslated from the…” Azira trailed off as it became clear from Shadwell’s blank expression that he was no longer listening. Azira cleared his throat. “So are you? The Keeper?”

“Och, no. I’m a witchfinder, laddie. I don’t  _ keep _ anythin’. I  _ exterminate _ .”

Azira accepted the mug of questionable tea Shadwell handed him with a smile of gratitude.

“I see,” he said, though he really didn’t. Did Shadwell know the location or did he not?

“I like ye,” Shadwell said with a smile. “Ye seem like a fair sort. Ye know, the Witchfinder Army is an enormous organisation. Vast. A secret army that battles the forces of witchery.”

“How…nice for you,” Azira answered, sipping his truly abysmal tea.

“Ye never know when a gentleman such as yourself might have need of such an organisation.”

“I…suppose,” Azira said. He needed to get the conversation away from witches and back to world-ending. “Speaking of gentlemen, do you happen to know a man named Lucifer?”

“Lucifer?” Shadwell said as he wandered off to paw through a particularly precarious stack of papers on the far counter. “Is he a witch?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Azira said.

“Did ye count his nipples?”

“No! Why are you so obsessed with— oh, never mind. If you haven’t heard of him, I suppose that’s a good thing. Only how did he come to have your address?”

This last question Azira muttered mainly to himself. Then, eschewing etiquette for expediency, he set down his tea and began his own search of the place, counting on Shadwell’s scattered personality to distract him from Azira’s snooping.

“Did your wife have any other relatives in the area that might know of the scroll?”

“No, no. She was the last of them. Else she’d not have entrusted it to me, I’ll be bound.”

“There’s that,” Azira said, muttering to himself again. Then louder for Shadwell to hear from the other room he’d wandered into, he said, “Was it merely words she guarded, or were there physical objects related to the scroll?”

Azira picked through an overstuffed curio cabinet just to the left of a broken grandfather clock. He found a battered hat and a selection of tarnished pins, but nothing that looked nearly ancient enough to correspond with the age of the scroll.

“I dinnae remember, laddie. It’s been decades since I even thought o’ it.”

“Yes, of course. I do apologize for dredging this all up, but it’s terribly important, and I’m afraid your connection to it might yet put your life at some risk.”

“What’s that?”

“I said, it could put your life at risk,” Azira said a touch louder.

“Not that,” Shadwell said. “ _ That _ .”

And then Azira heard it. A slight scraping at the lock, as if someone were attempting to gain entry through the front door.

Azira dropped the bell and candle he’d been holding and backed towards the kitchen, heart pounding. “Do you have a back way out?” he stage-whispered. “We must leave immediately.”

“Aye, but it’s blocked.”

“Blocked? How so?”

Shadwell joined him in the kitchen, clutching an old-fashioned blunderbuss in his thick hands. He shuffled over to a thoroughly concealed door, hemmed in by stacks of heavy looking boxes. With a grunt of effort, he moved the first small stack out of the way.

“We’ll never unblock it in time,” Azira said, nevertheless taking a box off the top of the largest stack and tossing it into the kitchen. “Is there no other way out?”

“This is it, laddie,” he said standing back. “But ne’er ye worry. I’ll hold the blighters at bay.”

Abandoning the useless door, Azira cast about for his own weapon and came up with only a metal spatula. This was going to be bad. He’d been so foolish to leave without the others, without Crowley. But no, the point had been to avoid them all getting into this exact situation. It was for the best. It was. It just meant that Azira would have to find his own way out this time.

“Psst! Dr. Fell!”

Azira nearly dropped the spatula in surprise at the voice coming from just beyond the stack of boxes to his left.

“Dr. Fell! This way!”

“Adam?” Azira said, just as the front door burst inward and a stream of brigands crossed the threshold.

Shadwell yelled some kind of Scottish-sounding battlecry that Azira had no hope of interpreting, and fired the old blunderbuss down the hall. The goons dove for cover, but there was little to no chance of Shadwell actually hitting anything with the weapon. It was far too rudimentary for anything like aim.

“Hurry!” Adam yelled as Azira stumbled over the toppled boxes between himself and the sound of Adam’s voice.

Following Adam’s voice, he climbed up onto the table, and realized the boy was behind a broken window he hadn’t noticed before. It was barely large enough to fit a person. But it was better than being killed or kidnapped by the intruders he presumed had been sent by Lucifer.

“Shadwell!” he called. Blessedly, the man turned in time to see Azira frantically waving him over as the hoodlums regrouped.

Azira squeezed through the window pane, ripping his shirt along the way, and tumbled to the ground outside, wrenching his shoulder and reopening the barely scabbed-over wound.

“Blast,” he hissed as he covered the newly bleeding cut with his bandaged left hand. 

“Come on!” Adam called from the far end of the lot behind Shadwell’s house, just before he disappeared over the side of a seeming cliff.

Azira hurried to where Adam had vanished and peered over the edge. Shadwell’s street apparently sat at the top of a steep bluff, which Azira hadn’t noticed, coming up from the opposite direction. A sharp drop to the street below made him dizzy, Shops were cut straight into the rock, and windows sported awnings that could maybe break a fall. There was no sign of Adam, but the Bentley sat in the street below, honking at him insistently.

Shadwell landed in a swearing heap next to the house. At least, Azira assumed it was swearing, as it sounded mostly like a collection of nonsense syllables interspersed with raucous throat clearing. He rushed back to the man to help him to his feet.

“Get up!” Azira pleaded. “It won’t take them long to figure out where we’ve gone.”

He pulled Shadwell up by his arm and pushed him towards the back of the lot.

“Aye and we can’t outrun them,” Shadwell pointed out, waving his silly gun.

“I have a car!”

When they reached the edge, he pushed Shadwell over and then jumped himself, hoping for a miracle. He hit a tarp sheltering a mango cart, then immediately rolled off it and onto the roof of the Bentley, next to Shadwell who was wheezing and laughing like a lunatic.

“Always wanted to do that,” Shadwell said.

Shots rang out around them as the gangsters appeared at the top of the bluff they’d just fallen from. One of the thugs was preparing to jump after them. They were out of time. 

“Go, Adam!” Azira shouted, pounding the roof of the Bentley with his fist. 

The Bentley leaped forward, nearly dislodging its rooftop passengers. But Azira managed to grab on in time to stop himself sliding off.

Forget the scroll, his quest, even the blessed apocalypse - Azira's only burning desire at that moment was to live to see another day. Or even another thirty seconds, as Adam ricocheted from one branching alleyway to another, trying to lose their pursuers, who were giving chase in a monstrous-looking motorcar of their own.

Adam cut the wheel sharply, nearly throwing Shadwell off entirely, as the stupid man refused to let go of his near useless blunderbuss. The Bentley sloped downward into a loading dock beneath a warehouse surrounded by marketplace carts, goods, and people all hawking their wares as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening.

Azira slid off the roof, arms still clenched and shaking. Shadwell did the same, swearing fit to burst Azira’s eardrums.

“Get in!” Adam said. “Don’t want anyone wandering by to hear us.”

“Thank you, dear boy,” Azira said, his voice shaking almost as badly as his arms. “How did you manage to escape them?”

“Saw them coming,” he said. “Big, nasty trolls with a giant Cadillac. Bentley and I snuck off round the back before they caught wind of us. Took me a tick to get up the other side, though.”

“How—?” Azira shook his head. “Never mind. We’re safe now, and we owe you our lives.”

“Comes with the fare,” Adam said with a roguish grin that somehow reminded Azira of Crowley, though Adam looked nearly the opposite. Average height and weight for his age, light brown hair, dimples, an open expression and unguarded smile. But the caginess about the eyes was the same. They’d both seen too much to not know how the world worked.

“Well, thank you just the same.” Then Azira had a thought. “Adam, how would you like to work for me?”

“Work for you?” Adam said, raising an eyebrow. “Will it always be this much of a lark?”

Azira started to say no but then stopped himself. “Actually, yes. More than likely.”

Adam grinned with his whole body. “Fantastic! Count me in.”

Azira laughed. “Right. Glad that’s settled then. Shall we head back to the…er, to home, then?” He was reluctant to identify the place as a brothel in front of a stranger and a child. 

“Should be safe enough. We’ll have to go slow, though,” Adam said in a tone that made clear how much that prospect disappointed him.

He reversed the Bentley from the loading area, and the car sputtered down the alley. Meanwhile, Azira studied Shadwell in the dim light of the dark city.

“I apologize, Sergeant, for accidentally abducting you. But I’m afraid you’ll be much safer with us now than you would be on your own.”

“S’why I’ve got old Bess,” he said, lovingly patting the rusty barrel of his blunderbuss.

“Nevertheless, I would like to offer you a room at the…at the inn at which I’m staying. My treat, of course. Just until this unpleasantness blows over.” 

“Well,” Shadwell grunted, puffing his chest. “I suppose I could do with a holiday.”

“Exactly,” Azira breathed with relief. He owed it to the man to extend him some measure of safety. Besides, maybe Azira could get more information from him if he kept him close. “A holiday.”

“Ye never know. There may be witches,” Shadwell said with undisguised glee.

Azira sighed heavily and looked through the Bentley’s window, trying desperately to come up with some way of explaining this all to Crowley.


	10. Answers and Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley searches for answers, but it's the questions that surprise him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would not have made it nearly this far without my faithful and amazing beta [Z A Dusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/works). I am just the luckiest. <333
> 
> CW in this chapter for period-appropriate reference to homophobia, but nothing remotely violent or graphic.

_ Five hours earlier _

“What are we doing here again?” Crowley groused as he stepped off the tram at the docks. A row of warehouses with very few windows and not much in the way of decoration slumped boringly along the shore. “If I were a mysterious deadly scroll hider, this is probably the last place I’d put it.”

Anathema hopped off behind him, carrying a sheaf of paper with a messy scrawl of writing across each page. 

“Some kind of clue. Something permanent, like a carving or landmark. It would need to have stood for thousands of years.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. Not much here is that reliable.”

“Well, you would know, wouldn’t you?” she shot back with a heaping dose of vitriol.

“S’there some sort of problem, book girl?”

“Dr. Fell got shot because of you.”

Crowley felt an immediate avalanche of guilt.

“He wouldn’t thank me for reading you the riot act about it,” Anathema continued, edging closer with an unmistakable threat in her eyes. “But believe me when I say that if anything happens to him, I will burn you at the stake.”

“I…” Crowley started to defend himself, but then thought better of it as the flash in her eyes grew in intensity. He swallowed instead. She was downright scary when she wanted to be. “I won’t let it happen again.”

Her claws receded and she stepped back to a more appropriate distance. “I’m glad we understand each other,” she said simply. Then she thumbed through her papers, stopped to study a specific passage, and took off in a seemingly random direction.

Newt, who’d been a silent observer during Crowley’s vivisection, merely shrugged and strode off after Anathema. Crowley trailed after in bemusement. How had this become his life?

The afternoon sun blazed hotter than Hades on the back of Crowley’s neck. The kind of hellfire that caused immediate burn if you weren’t already half demon. Thank Satan for dark glasses was all Crowley could say about it. He hoped Anathema found whatever it was she was looking for, and soon.

“Newt,” Crowley called with a tone of command he couldn’t seem to help. 

Newt obediently turned to wait for Crowley to catch up. 

“You stay with the girl. Keep tabs on what she finds. If possible—"

“I know, I know. Send her off course.” Newt frowned disapprovingly.

“It’s in their best interest,” Crowley reminded him, irked that even his underling was now judging him.

“Maybe,” Newt grumbled. “But their best interest is not why we’re doing it.”

Crowley grunted in irritation. “She’s getting into your head.”

Newt snorted. “No more than he’s getting into yours.”

“Ng— ss— wot?”

Newt folded his arms, taking a solid stance. “You heard me.”

Crowley gaped at him for a full minute before turning on his heel and walking away.

“You always do that, you know,” Newt called after him. “Walk off rather than face things. But I doubt he’ll let you.”

Crowley ignored this ridiculous assessment as he stalked away from Newt and the docks and toward the Papyrus. He continued to ignore it as he bypassed the Papyrus altogether and headed west toward a neighborhood he hadn’t visited since just after the war ended. He further ignored it as he climbed a flight of stairs to an unassuming apartment door and knocked on it. 

A moment passed, and Crowley turned to go, chastising himself vehemently for letting Newt’s comment rattle him so much. But before he could make it down more than a stair, the door behind him opened.

“Captain Crowley?” a familiar voice said.

Crowley stopped mid-step, his heart hammering.

“Lieutenant,” he said, his cheeks burning. What the Heaven had he been thinking, coming here? 

“I haven’t seen you in fifteen years. What are you doing here?”

Lieutenant Smythe was just as tall and lanky as he had been in his youth, but with more facial hair. And the haunted expression he’d worn during the war had dissipated somewhat, to Crowley’s relief. He’d never felt good about how he’d left things. But he especially regretted what had happened to the soldiers under his command. He’d done what he could, but it hadn’t been enough, not near enough.

“Who is it, Tom?” another familiar voice asked from inside.

“It’s the Captain,” Smythe said over his shoulder. Then he stepped to one side and gestured for Crowley to enter. “Won’t you come in?”

Crowley hesitated. He both wanted to and didn’t want to walk in, because once he walked in, Smythe would want to know why he’d called, and Crowley was in no way prepared to talk about that. But he needed someone to ask, someone he knew would understand his situation, because he was far too muddled to work it out himself. Inevitably, his feet dragged him through the door and into the nice but spare living room.

“Nice to see you, Captain,” Seth Hassan said, though the lift at the end of the greeting implied a question.

“Corporal,” Crowley greeted back. “How’re things?”

“Well enough, I suppose,” Hassan said as he moved towards the kitchen area to put the kettle on. 

Smythe sat on one end of the small couch, and Crowley sat awkwardly at the other end.

“Not that it isn’t a pleasure, but why the sudden visit?” Smythe asked, with typical forthrightness.

Crowley looked at his hands. “I…think I need your help.”

“My help?” Smythe said, seeming as bewildered as Crowley felt. “With what?”

“I…” Crowley trailed off. He had no idea how to broach the topic. Not even the first word.

“Oh, my god,” Hassan said from the nearby kitchen, dropping the tea things on the counter with a clatter. “You’re gay.”

Smythe startled in surprise, eyes widening as he huffed a laugh. “Is that true?”

Crowley turned to stare at Hassan. “How did you…?”

Hassan stared back, a huge, toothy grin on his face. “I knew it! I absolutely fucking knew it!”

“Well, that’s bloody amazing, since I hadn’t the faintest idea,” Crowley muttered.

Smythe shook his head. “There was speculation, since you never really partook in…well… But no one ever saw you ogling men, either, so we just thought you were…you know…focused on getting us through.”

“Exactly,” Crowley said, gesturing to an invisible party as if they’d been arguing about it earlier and Smythe had just confirmed Crowley’s point.

“Forget the sodding tea,” Hassan said, abandoning the mugs and sugar. “We’re going to need scotch for this conversation.” He pulled a hefty bottle of amber liquid from a cabinet above the refrigerator. Locating three tumblers, he returned to the sitting area, juggling everything with the same graceful ease Crowley remembered from the trenches.

Hassan set Crowley’s glass down on the simple wooden table next to the couch and filled it with three fingers of scotch, much to Crowley’s chagrin. He hoped this wasn’t going to be a three-fingers-of-scotch kind of conversation. But Hassan poured himself and his lover each a glass and then perched on the arm of the couch next to Smythe.

“Who is he?” Hassan asked, smirking as he sipped.

“What makes you think there’s someone specific?”

Hassan shrugged, smiling, waiting for Crowley to break, his black mustache twitching in amusement. He dropped a hand to Smythe’s shoulder and rubbed it absently. Smythe didn’t seem to notice, waiting attentively for Crowley to spill his guts. 

“His name is Fell. He’s my client.”

Both Hassan and Smythe winced.

“That could get messy,” Smythe said, nursing his own drink. “Unless you don’t need the commission? Then it might be worth the risk.”

“I’m not here about him. I’m here about me.”

Hassan nodded sagely. “You’re here because you doubt what you’re feeling.”

“Could be a passing thing, couldn’t it?”

Hassan and Smythe traded a look before Smythe answered. “Don’t know, Captain. Everyone’s different. But…” He trailed off, leaving Crowley irked. Why couldn’t the man just spit it out?

“But what?”

Smythe sighed. “But I don’t think you’d have come  _ here _ if it was a passing thing. You’re far gone enough that you— _ you _ —Cold-Blooded Crowley—are asking for help. It’s never happened. Or at least, I’ve never seen it.”

Crowley barked a sharp laugh. “I forgot they used to call me that. I thought it was because I kept my cool under cannon fire.”

“It was both,” Hassan said with a wink.

Crowley groaned and rubbed his face. “What do I do? I don’t know how to be…” He gestured vaguely to encompass all the things about himself he couldn’t put into words.

“Nobody does, mate,” Smythe said, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. He offered Crowley a puff, but Crowley waved it off. He wasn’t in the mood. Smythe shrugged and exhaled a stream of smoke before passing it to Hassan. “I can’t tell you how to be you. But I will tell you this…” He took Hassan’s hand in his own, looking down at it as he held it loosely between his palms. “Taking this particular risk was the best thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

“Awww, you old softie,” Hassan said with both fondness and teasing in his voice. “And yes, I will do that thing with my tongue that you like so much. But it will have to wait until after the captain has finished his drink.”

Smythe gently smacked Hassan’s knee while still smiling genially at Crowley. 

Crowley’s anxiety ramped up at the teasing comment rather than down, though. How was he supposed to know what to do in that department? He’d never learned. And he had no wish to figure it out with anyone other than Azira.

“How do I know what…er…to do? If I do try to…initiate…something…” Satan, this conversation was going to kill him.

Hassan opened his mouth to respond, but Smythe cut him off.

“No, that is quite alright. I am not having this conversation with my  _ captain _ , of all people. No. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to figure that part out on your own, sir.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Hassan said to Smythe, rolling his eyes. “It’s the thirties, now. The Modern age. We don’t have to hide as much as we used to.”

“It’s too personal. He’s still our captain.”

Hassan snorted, turning to address Crowley. “He’s such a prude sometimes. That and a stickler for hierarchy.”

“I remember,” Crowley said, thinking of all the times Smythe had saved his arse from a harsh reprimand by a ranking officer. “Probably would have been court martialed a lot sooner if it weren’t for him.”

That sobered the conversation quicker than if he’d dumped a bucket of cold water on both their heads.

Smythe took another long drag of his cigarette and stubbed it out in a nearby ashtray.

“That was…” He took a deep breath and blew it out, while Hassan moved his hand from Smythe’s shoulder to rub his back. “That was a hard day for all of us, Captain. None of us… It wasn’t right, what they did. It wasn’t right.”

“It’s fine, Lieutenant,” Crowley said. “Nothing to be done. And I managed to wriggle out of it anyway.”

“But your eyes…”

Crowley stood abruptly, wanting to put a definitive end to that particular line of conversation. He felt his pockets, almost panicking when he couldn’t feel his glasses until he remembered he was still wearing them. Where was his head?

He reached for his scotch and downed the rest of it in a single swallow. “Well, I don’t need to waste any more of your time.”

“You just got here,” Hassan said. “Stay for dinner at least.”

“I can’t. I have to get back. He’s…”

He’d been about to say  _ he’s hurt _ but then decided against it. He didn’t want to have to stay and explain.

“He’s waiting for you?” Hassan said with a suggestive eyebrow, smirk back in place. “You should bring him here. It might help, you know. Could give you an idea if he…might be amenable.”

Crowley shook his head, a sucking sensation filling his ribcage. He rubbed his breastbone to soothe it. “He’s religious. Or at least his family is. There’s not much chance, he’d… Well. Anyway, like I said. This is about me, not him.”

Hassan gave him a regretful half-smile and a hug. “Don’t give up. Speak your truth, if you feel safe doing it. I never thought I’d get this one to admit he was hot for me, but he finally did.”

Smythe rolled his eyes at Hassan. “Like I had any choice in the matter,” he said, shaking Crowley’s hand as he saw him to the door.

“You really didn’t,” Hassan admitted. Then to Crowley, he said. “Don’t be a stranger, Captain. And bring your man by. Trust me on this one.”

“I’ll think about it,” Crowley said reluctantly, though he had no intention of doing so. “And thank you.”

A few more words of farewell, and Crowley was on his way back to Tracy’s. His mind bounced from thought to thought like a rock thrown down a narrow well. Led to just as dark a place, too. Every time he thought of Azira, which was all too often, given the circumstances, the angel’s face shone in his mind like a beacon, like a lodestar guiding him to a land of milk and honey. 

But eden wasn’t meant for the likes of Anthony J. Crowley. Never had been, never would be. And just because he’d now found the answer to the question he’d been asking since the beginning, that didn’t mean that he could  _ keep _ it. Not even if it meant he’d never be happy with anything else.

When he got back to the house, he let himself in, still lost in the tangled strings of his thoughts. So much so that he didn’t notice Pepper right away.

“Psst! Crowley!”

Crowley nearly tripped over his own feet, he was so startled by the abrupt call back to the present. 

“What?”

Pepper twisted her hands around the wooden spoon she held, looking uncharacteristically nervous

“What is it?”

“It’s Mr. Fell,” she said.

“Dr. Fell,” he corrected automatically, and then worry erupted in his gut. “What about him? Is he worse?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

Crowley paced towards the stairs, hand already on the railing. “Spit it out, Pepper.”

“He left through the kitchen. Made me promise not to let on I’d seen him. That he just had a quick errand. But that was hours ago now.”

“How many hours ago?” Crowley demanded. She slunk back, wincing. Crowley swore at himself. “Not your fault, Pepper. Glad you told me. Did you see where he went?”

She shook her head. “I was busy. I didn’t pay attention. And even if I had, he could be anywhere by now. He’s been gone since at least four o’clock, and it’s after eleven now.”

Crowley ground his teeth in frustration. Of  _ course _ the bastard had left. Crowley should have known that something as trivial as a bullet wound wouldn’t deter him. But where would he go if not the docks?

“Are Anathema and Newt back?”

Pepper nodded. “Saw them go upstairs about half an hour since. They took food up. Do you want some?”

“No,” Crowley said and started up the stairs. “Wait, yes,” he said, thinking better of it. Azira could come back at any time, and if he hadn’t eaten, he’d be starving. Which meant Crowley could use it to lure him into a trap, involving handcuffing the wandering angel to his bed. Luckily, Pepper’s return with a pot of stew interrupted the cascade of brain-melting thoughts that handcuffing Azira to a bed had kicked off.

“Thanks, Pepper,” Crowley said. “Go get some sleep.”

Pepper snorted and rolled her eyes at him, but Crowley barely noticed as he took the stairs two at a time to see for himself whether Azira had made it home or not.

Not, as it turned out.

“Where is he?” Crowley demanded of Anathema and Newt as he burst into the loft. 

The two assistants, their heads bent together over the table of maps, quickly abandoned their conversation to peer at him owlishly through their glasses.

“We don’t know,” Anathema said. “He hasn’t checked in. And before you ask, yes, I’m worried. This isn’t like him.”

“How is it not like him?” Crowley snarled as he closed the distance to the table. “He’s always climbing up on rampaging trains and punching people and getting into scrapes. This is exactly like him.”

“Okay, well,  _ none _ of this is like him, then. He reads books. He doesn’t—” 

The door to the loft opened and three sets of footsteps started climbing the small flight of stairs. Azira’s cream-colored curls, mussed and dirty, appeared first, followed immediately after by a pate of thinning white wisps, and, finally, a mop of light brown, neither of which Crowley recognized.

“Angel!” Crowley shouted, tossing the pot of stew he’d been holding onto the kitchenette counter as he rounded on the man. “Where the devil have you been?”

“I had a bit of a run in, but not to fret, we managed to…I believe, the phrase is  _ get away clean _ .”

Azira smirked, clearly pleased with himself, and obviously not registering Crowley’s thunderous expression at all. 

“You were meant to be resting! You were shot yesterday. Do you remember getting shot?”

Azira scowled at him, or as near as Azira got to scowling anyway, which was more of a condescending frown, really.

“It was just a graze. I’m fine.”

“Just a graze? You said your arm was on fire!”

“It was. Then it…got better.”

“It got better?!”

Azira took a steadying breath. “I’m fine. We’re all fine. And, look, I brought  _ guests _ .”

The emphasis he put on the word was clearly meant to convey to Crowley to shut up and stop embarrassing him. But there was no way in Heaven that Crowley was letting him off that easy. There absolutely would be handcuffs, and all of Crowley’s anatomy was going to have to learn to live with that.

“This conversation isn’t over,” he growled at Azira. Then he turned his attention to the old man and the child Azira had brought back with him. “Oi, who are you?”

“Witchfinder Shadwell,” said the old man.

“And I’m Adam Young,” the boy said. “Official driver for Dr. Fell.”

“Official what?”

“Yes, you see he was quite helpful, and I thought we could use a more, ahem, reliable form of transportation during our stay.”

“Helpful?” Adam piped up. “I saved your bacon, didn’t I?”

“Well, perhaps the less said about that, the better,” Azira said, eyeing Crowley with a once over that Crowley felt in every fiber of his being.

“And you’re the new bodyguard, I presume?” Crowley barked, gesturing to Shadwell’s pirate-looking shotgun.

“Why? Are there witches?”

“What?” Crowley was beginning to lose his very last thread of patience. He turned his ire back to Azira, which was probably the place it belonged anyway. “Start talking, angel.”

“I left a note.”

Anathema thumbed a small strip of paper off the table and held it up for them all to see. 

“This is not a note, Dr. Fell,” she said, sounding almost as irritated as Crowley. “This is a non-note that says nothing.”

“Well, that was the note I left for Crowley,” Azira said, fidgeting and shooting Crowley a sheepish look. “I left  _ you _ a note as well, dear girl, that was perhaps a bit more…informative?”

“I didn’t get any note,” Anathema said.

“I left it under your door.”

“I haven’t been back to my room. We found out you’d left, and we’ve been brainstorming where you might have gone ever since.”

“Oh,” he said. “Well, perhaps I should have swapped the notes.”

“Really?” Crowley said, layering as much sarcasm as he could into the single word.

“In any case, it’s a moot point now. I’m here, and I’m fine.”

“Oh, you’re fine, are you?” Crowley growled again, stalking closer to Azira. “Then why are you all over dirt, bandages askew, and hiding your wounded arm?”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Azira protested, but with more than a little guilt in his expression that belied his words.

Crowley crossed the remaining space between them and pulled Azira’s hand away from where it had been covering the opposite arm. Fresh blood bloomed through Azira’s shirt. Enough of it to cause Crowley’s heart to drop. This wasn’t just ordinary seepage through a bandage that needed to be changed. Azira had somehow reopened the wound, and it was bleeding freely.

Crowley hissed through his teeth.

“Everyone out. Now!”

Anathema gathered up her papers, making no argument, and Newt followed suit. The newcomers looked a little wrong-footed at first, but Anathema bustled them out ahead of her, saying something about arranging them rooms with Madam Tracy. Frankly, Crowley couldn’t have cared less.

“I say, that was quite unnecessary. I didn’t even get to properly introduce Shadwell before you rudely sent everyone off.”

“Angel, sit down,” Crowley said, glaring through his glasses at the aggravating man. “All of it can wait till morning. It is past midnight, and you’re bleeding, and I’m so angry, I can barely see straight.”

Azira, thank all the gods, obeyed him and sat in a chair near the table. Crowley pulled another chair over and went to fetch a bowl of water and a towel from the kitchen.

“Take off your shirt,” he ordered, deceptively quietly. He was still furious that Azira had gotten into enough trouble that his wound had reopened, but he knew it wouldn’t help the situation if he raved like a lunatic about it.

“I really don’t think—”

“Take  _ off _ your  _ shirt _ , Azira.”

Grumbling, Azira capitulated while Crowley brought the bowl over to the table, working his waistcoat buttons with his uninjured, non-dominant hand in such a ham-fisted, awkwardly ineffective way that Crowley sighed heavily, sat down, and said something he was quite certain he would soon regret.

“Let me,” he muttered gruffly. Then he intentionally shut off all avenues to his brain beyond the coordination necessary to pull at a button, work it through the hole, and release it again. Gritting his teeth, he did the same for the next button, and the next, and the next, all the way up Azira’s chest. It was beyond lucky that Azira had managed the lowest three buttons on his own. Having to manipulate those without Crowley’s brain completely imploding would have been utterly impossible. 

Azira managed to shrug out of the waistcoat with only a wince or two of pain escaping his neutral expression. Then he pulled off his braces and untucked the tails of his shirt.

Crowley bit the inside of his cheek hard, thinking about cricket, thinking about camel stench, thinking about literally anything other than what his hands were doing as he unbuttoned Azira’s shirt as well. Satan, this was  _ hard _ . And then he immediately regretted thinking that specific word, as certain of his appendages were starting to get the wrong idea about what he’d meant by it.

Fuck it. Enough buttons had been undone that he could get at Azira’s shoulder, which he absolutely assured himself was all he really wanted. 

He pulled Azira’s shirt collar out and down enough to expose the reopened wound, and with a sharp intake of breath that he refused to allow to become a tirade, he began unwrapping the soiled bandage.

“I can do this myself,” Azira said softly. “If it bothers you, you don’t have to…”

“Why would it bother me?”

“I can tell it bothers you. You’re swearing under your breath.”

Oh, Satan, had he been? He hadn’t even noticed.

“It’s fine,” Crowley said through clenched teeth.

“Really, dear, I can take care of it myself.”

“How did this happen?” Crowley said, dabbing at the messy flesh with the wet cloth.

Azira bit his lip nervously, and Crowley nearly lost consciousness from trying to keep his focus on Azira’s wound rather than the thought of his own teeth grazing those plush lips.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

Crowley grunted an affirmative. It was the only sound Crowley could trust himself to make at the moment.

“Well, I was interviewing Shadwell when we were interrupted by, I assume, Lucifer’s forces.”

“What? Did one of them—?”

“Ouch, Crowley, you’re squeezing my bicep a little too strongly, dear.”

“Sorry,” Crowley mumbled, loosening his grip.

“The answer is  _ no _ , they didn’t get near me. Shadwell and I escaped through the back window before they made their way through the front of the house to the kitchen.”

“You fell through a window?”

“It wasn’t that high, just a short hop to the ground, really. But, yes, I landed wrong and it reopened the wound.”

“Then what?” Crowley insisted, returning his attention to the wound in question, dabbing away the blood as gently as he could.

“Well…er…then, you see, Shadwell’s house is situated at the top of a bluff, and the villains were at the front, you know, and, well, we only had the one option for escape…”

“What did you do, angel?” Crowley said, admiring his own restraint, given that he was battling the twin urges to either kiss the idiot senseless or to wring his bloody neck.

“Well, I sort of hopped over the edge, if you will, landed quite safely on a tarp and then rolled injury-free onto the roof of the…ah…the Bentley—Adam’s Bentley.”

“Adam, the child.”

“Yes, it would appear he is quite the gifted getaway driver.”

Crowley pursed his lips as he set the now bloody rag back into the bloody bowl and got up to procure a fresh set of non-bloody  _ bloody _ bandages from the bathroom.

“Say something, Crowley.”

But Crowley couldn’t. He couldn’t say anything. He could barely  _ breathe _ . He fumbled the bandages several times before he could pull them successfully from the drawer.

When he finally returned to Azira, he stood there for a long moment, staring down at the man he… At the man, who kept throwing himself off literal cliffs and taking Crowley’s heart with him. What was he going to do? He couldn’t keep this up. He wouldn’t survive it. Especially if Azira…didn’t— He brutally cut off that thought. He wouldn’t even contemplate it.

“I feel as if I should apologize,” Azira said, fiddling with the fabric of his trousers. “But I’m not sure what for.”

Crowley dropped into his chair, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes with his dry but still bloodstained hand.

“Just… You can’t… It’s  _ my _ job to chase the bad guys, alright? My job to fight, to investigate, to get you where you need to be. You do your job. Let me do mine.”

Azira laid a warm hand over Crowley’s where it rested on Crowley’s knee. “Your job is to keep me alive. And, look, I’m alive. You’re doing your job brilliantly.”

Crowley snorted. “My job would be a lot easier if you stayed put.”

“Well, that’s not likely, is it?” Azira said with a teasing smile that melted Crowley’s insides.

Crowley looked at Azira, searching his face for the truth. Would he shatter Crowley’s heart into six thousand pieces? Or worse, had he done it already, and Crowley was just too stupid to realize?

“I like it when you take your glasses off,” Azira said softly, apropos of nothing, and then winced. “I mean, not to be too forward. Obviously, you can wear them if you prefer, but I… It feels like I can see you better without them.”

“Don’t you mean, I can see you better?”

“No,” Azira said, his eyes never leaving Crowley’s. “I can see you better.”

Then Azira’s hand left Crowley’s, and Crowley could have sworn Azira meant to touch Crowley’s face with it. But Azira seemed to rethink the intention and drew his hand to his chest instead, dropping his gaze from Crowley’s.

“Not that I don’t see you well enough otherwise, of course. I hope I didn’t offend.”

Crowley, stupidly disappointed about a touch that Azira might not have even intended, decided to leave his glasses off as he said, “No. It’s fine. I only wear them because…”

“Because?” Azira prompted when Crowley didn’t immediately finish his thought. The angel’s face was too lit up with interest for Crowley to not give in to the question. Crowley was already well on his way to the point of so hopelessly besotted that he’d give Azira anything he asked—his right arm, his left arm, anything.

“Because they’re damaged. I mean, I damaged them. S’my fault.”

“Damaged? But they look flawless,” Azira said, studying them clinically now, his gaze intensifying.

“They’re sensitive to light. Sunlight’s the worst, but even lamp light too close can cause pain. S’why I wear them indoors.”

“How did you damage them?” Azira asked, returning his hand to Crowley’s again, seemingly without thought. Crowley swallowed hard at the touch, trying desperately not to read too much into it. Azira was just being kind. He was always kind. He called everyone ‘dear.’ Crowley wasn’t special.

“I… It’s not a story I like to share, angel. It’s complicated.”

“I understand,” Azira said, disappointment flashing across his face. “Don’t feel you have to tell me if it makes you uncomfortable.”

Crowley registered then that Azira was absently rubbing soothing circles with his thumb against the skin of Crowley’s hand. The bottom fell out of Crowley’s stomach completely, as if he were falling from a great height. 

“Are you alright, dear? I hope I haven’t upset you.”

“N-no, I’m f-fine, angel. It’s you who’s injured.” And with that excuse, he pulled his hand away from Azira and hurried to unroll the bandage. He folded one end into a square doubled over several times and pressed that against the gently weeping wound. Then he wound the other end tightly around Azira’s bicep, categorically ignoring the heat from Azira’s skin, the downy, white hair along the length of his arm, and the smell of lavender and sweat and motor oil. He was practically salivating, he wanted Azira so badly, and that would not do. It would not do at all.

Azira seemed content to let Crowley work, thinking his own thoughts, whatever they were, probably assuming all the wrong things about Crowley’s eye story. Crowley should set him straight about it. He wasn’t the victim but the perpetrator, never mind that it was himself who suffered the consequences. He didn’t deserve or want Azira’s pity, and anyway it wasn’t such a big deal to have to wear glasses all the time. Both Anathema and Newt did. Crowley was about to say as much when Azira spoke again.

“I suppose you’re the sort who has a mistress in every town along the Nile Delta, aren’t you?”

“I—what?”

Crowley was completely flummoxed by the 180-degree turn. Had he even heard Azira correctly?

“Oh, nothing,” Azira said, smiling in a way that didn’t reach his eyes. Crowley absolutely hated that smile. He never wanted to see it on Azira’s face again. “Just idle speculation.”

Crowley didn’t know what to say. That Azira had read him so wrongly was laughable. Crowley almost did laugh. Would have, in fact, if he didn’t feel so much like crying at the same time.

“I don’t, as it happens. Never really interested me.”

Azira snorted in mirthless amusement. “You don’t have to be gentle with me. I’m not a complete innocent.”

“I can’t even pretend to know what you mean by that.”

“Look at you,” he said, seeming to warm to the topic. “You’re beautiful. And I mean that objectively. You must see the way people look at you.”

Crowley gaped at him. “Are you drunk?”

“No, more’s the pity,” Azira said, though he did seem loopy, likely the result of blood loss and exhaustion. “I am a bit peckish, though. Is that koshary I smell?”

Grateful for the reprieve, Crowley hopped up to fetch the bowl of stew from the kitchen. But by the time he turned back, bowl in hand, Azira had fallen asleep in the chair, snoring the tiniest, most adorable snores Crowley had ever heard.

_ Satan curse it _ , he thought as he stowed the bowl in the refrigerator instead. He was entirely, absolutely, and in every way lost to Azira Fell.


	11. Crepes and Conflagration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the night before and a key discovery that changes everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to my beloved beta [Z A Dusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/works) for the ego-boosting squeeing and the making it better than it has any right to be. <3333

Azira woke the next morning in stages. At first, he remembered nothing and couldn’t for the life of him figure out why every atom of his body hurt. Then he remembered clinging to the roof of the Bentley as it careened around the marketplace. But as he couldn’t begin to imagine how he had ended up on the roof of a speeding vintage car, he dismissed the memory as a dream. 

Then he remembered Shadwell, and his eyes popped open. The Keeper! He’d found the Keeper of the Scroll! What was he still doing lying in bed? They had Anathema recreating the journal _and_ they had the Keeper. They had every advantage over Lucifer now.

And yet, there was something about last night trapped at the edge of his consciousness, something important. Something that was causing a strange pit of dread to open up in his stomach. What was it? Or was he just hungry? When was the last time he’d eat—?

Oh, good lord in Heaven, no. No, no, no, no, no.

He sat bolt upright in bed, his muscles screaming at him to lay back down at once. But he ignored them and tumbled out onto the floor like a pile of rocks. Then he leapt up again and ran around in a circle, not knowing where to look for his clothes.

Where _were_ his clothes? _Why did he not know where his clothes were?_

Did that mean...? Had Crowley…?

He was going to vomit. He made it to the wastepaper basket just in time to kneel over it and hurl up…nothing. There was nothing in his stomach to come out.

At least the heaving had cleared his head a little. He rushed to the wardrobe and pulled it open, finally locating his overshirt, braces, waistcoat, and trousers. They had been put in their proper place, but poorly, which was only further evidence that Crowley had probably undressed _him — oh MY GOD_.

Azira prayed as he pulled his clothes on over his underthings. Prayed feverishly that he had not, in fact, told Crowley — _out loud_ — that he was a womanizer and beautiful and that people _looked at him — oh MY GOD_.

Azira would simply have to fire the man. For real, this time. Should have done ages ago. After the train. Why hadn’t he done it after _the train_ _?_ He’d known he was asking for trouble, keeping Crowley on. It was only a matter of time before he let his inclination towards Crowley show, no matter how well or quickly he hid it afterwards. It would be a miracle if Crowley hadn’t left already.

At that thought, a tiny grain of hope lodged itself into Azira’s heart while he buttoned his waistcoat. Until another memory from the previous night surfaced, the memory of Crowley knocking his hand away, and slowly un _buttoning each button one at a time—_ NO. He would not remember every brush of Crowley’s fingers across his chest, every inhale of breath, he _would NOT._

Hope. He’d been thinking about hope. 

Yes, Crowley must have left already. Any sane man would. Azira knew he would come to feel far differently about the prospect of Crowley leaving ere the day was through _—_ that he would miss that sardonic smile, those gemstone eyes, that he’d always wonder would have happened if he’d just caught Crowley’s hand in his, closed the distance between them… But for now, the idea that the man had hied himself off, and Azira wouldn’t have to face him felt like an overgenerous gift he did not deserve.

Clutching desperately to this hope, Azira cracked open his bedroom door. Not immediately spying Crowley or any other person in the vicinity, he let go the breath he was holding and stepped into the loft’s living space.

“Morning, angel,” Crowley said, blithe as you please, from the kitchen area. 

Azira jumped near a mile, his heart hammering at him to run. But he couldn’t move. He was frozen. And besides, Crowley appeared to be mixing up a proper breakfast. Azira’s stomach growled.

“Hungry, I imagine?” Crowley continued, as if he hadn’t just nearly given Azira a heart attack.

Azira wanted to crawl into a hole and never emerge. But his stomach was not to be denied again, and so it took over the working of his feet long enough to drag him a few steps closer to the kitchen.

“I could eat,” he said, quiet as a mouse.

“What was that, angel? Speak up.”

“I said, I could eat,” he repeated, louder.

Crowley smiled in a way that made it obvious he’d heard Azira the first time.

“Hand me the salt, would you?” Crowley said, holding out one hand while stirring with the other.

“I didn’t realize we had full cooking capabilities up here,” Azira said, in the absence of anything better to say, as he handed Crowley the salt shaker.

“We don’t.” Crowley used the shaker and set it down on the counter. “No oven. Not much in the way of seasonings or supplies. But enough to manage breakfast.”

Azira retreated a pace or two, the mortification returning full force now his stomach was satisfied that food would factor into its near future.

“I suppose I should say thank you,” he said.

Crowley snorted. “Don’t say that. You haven’t tasted it. Could be awful.”

Picking up the mixing bowl, he whisked the eggs, milk, and flour together to form a loose batter, then shoved the strawberries he’d already sliced to the side to make room to set the bowl down again.

“Hope you like crepes,” he added.

“Crepes?” Azira said, heart now lodged in his throat. Every intention of firing Crowley sizzled to ash in an instant. The man was making him _crepes_. Azira bit his lip to keep it from wobbling.

“Yeah, you know. Pancake, sort of, but with panache.”

“I-I love crepes,” Azira said. “I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble—”

“S’no trouble at all. Nor bother, nor inconvenience, either, if you were about to suggest that next.” Crowley shot him a teasing grin, then turned his attention to the pan heating up on the small gas stove. He shooed Azira away with a spatula. “Go and have a seat, angel. Be ready in a jiff.”

But Azira didn’t move. He stared at Crowley’s profile, his miniature snake tattoo, his angled jaw. After everything that had happened, everything Azira had said, why was he still here?

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Azira asked.

Crowley paused in the act of pouring batter to capture Azira’s gaze, pulling his glasses down his nose to remove the tinted barrier between them.

“I already told you, I’m not nice.”

If Crowley’s intention had been to make Azira laugh and lighten the mood, he’d failed miserably. Azira didn’t laugh. He didn’t feel even the slightest bit like laughing. He wanted to reach out and take Crowley’s face in his hands, bend him down just that inch or two in height difference between them, and press his lips against Crowley’s until they shared the same breath. He wanted to back Crowley against the opposite counter, press in closer, chest to chest, move his hands into Crowley’s hair, deepen the kiss, show him how very _nice_ Azira knew him to be.

With a sharp intake of breath and a hasty sway back to the cooktop, Crowley broke the spell Azira had fallen under. Snake eyes indeed. Crowley had mesmerized him without even meaning to. Azira closed his own eyes, counting backwards from ten to regain his composure.

What was happening to him? It was like he suddenly had no control over himself at all. After decades of walling off all such feelings, he’d thought himself impervious, a stone statue to which words like _indecency_ and _immorality_ and _perverted_ could never be ascribed. But when he was with Crowley, all that stone crumbled around him like wet mortar, leaving him raw and vulnerable.

Before he could do anything else to ruin their partnership further, Azira marched himself over to the table and sat down, hands pressed together, pretending to be absorbed in Anathema’s research.

“Won’t be a minute,” Crowley said, as if he hadn’t noticed anything. Azira prayed that was the case, though deep down he knew that Crowley would have to be an idiot not to have seen the naked desire that had surely been written all over Azira’s face.

That settled it. He really did have to fire Crowley. Not because of Azira’s embarrassment, but because he was a distraction Azira could ill afford, and dangerous besides. If he suspected even half of Azira’s feelings, he could easily report him to the authorities. 

_Oh, what a mess_.

“Here we are, Crepes a la Crowley,” Crowley joked, sliding a folded napkin and a plate of delicious smelling confection in front of Azira. For once in his life, Azira was too anxious to eat. Crowley noticed his hesitation and said, “Not to your taste, Monsieur?”

“Stop,” Azira said. “Just stop being nice to me, I don’t deserve it.” He wouldn’t look at Crowley, so he didn’t see Crowley’s reaction to that, other than to hear him flop into a nearby chair.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I haven’t told you everything,” Azira said, twisting his fingers in his lap. 

“M’not surprised,” Crowley said, waving it off. “You’re entitled to your secrets.”

He seemed twitchy all of a sudden, as if Azira were hitting too close to something Crowley didn’t want out in the open. Azira snorted in self recrimination. Which of the many secrets Azira was hiding did Crowley not want exposed?

Suddenly, everything from the last twenty-four hours felt so heavy that he would suffocate if he didn't confess something, even if it wasn’t what was eating at him in that moment.

“I appreciate that, my dear, but I feel so responsible for Lucifer's team hunting the scroll. There’s a part of it that I haven’t told you, and I _—_ ”

“For Satan’s sake, angel, just eat your crepes.”

His mouth was turned down at the corner, his eyebrows drawn together as if afraid of disturbing the counterbalance between them. Azira could appreciate that desire. Maybe the conversation could wait just a little longer.

Sighing, Azira picked up his fork and cut himself a bite of the rolled crepe. Then he scooped it onto the fork, strawberry coulis dripping from the tines, and slipped it into his mouth. The flavors hit his tongue like a symphony, bursting with sweet and hints of spice. Cinnamon maybe, and was that cardamom? Azira had never tasted anything so delectable in his life, and he was making all kinds of embarrassing noises to prove it.

“You like it, then?” Crowley asked, his brow unfurling as he smiled at Azira.

“I’ve never had crepes this delicious,” he said truthfully. “Not even in Paris.”

“Secret ingredient,” Crowley said, tapping the side of his nose.

“I suppose you know the best creperie in town as well?” Azira smiled tentatively.

“I _am_ the best creperie in town.”

“I believe it.” 

Azira took another bite as his stomach rumbled merrily for more.

“Satan knows, I lack any other useful skill.”

Dabbing at his lips with the napkin, Azira couldn’t help but ask, “Out of curiosity, my dear, why do you reference Satan rather than God in your colloquial expressions?”

“Simple, really,” Crowley answered. “I don’t believe in God.”

That was interesting. Not many openly admitted to atheism, even if that was their philosophy. Azira counted himself among the faithful, of course, but he didn’t fault those who chose a different path, unlike most of so-called civilized society.

“But you believe in Satan?” Azira pressed, taking another bite.

“I fought in the war to end all wars, angel. I have seen Satan with my own eyes.”

Azira swallowed and set down his fork. His gaze flicked up to meet Crowley’s, and he reached out to touch Crowley’s hand where it lay on the table between them. The memory of touching Crowley’s hand the previous night surfaced then, but it no longer distressed him. It felt right to touch him now as it had felt right to touch him then. And for once, Azira wasn’t going to question it.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” Azira said earnestly.

The non-sequitur seemed to puzzle Crowley for a moment. When he finally opened his mouth to respond, he was interrupted by the downstairs door banging open, the tromp of multiple feet on the stairs, and the babbling of several people conversing at once.

Azira jerked his hand away from Crowley’s instinctively, terrified that the others would catch him fraternizing. He was less worried for himself than he was for Crowley. The man didn’t deserve public censure just because Azira felt things he shouldn’t. Something that looked suspiciously like hurt flickered across Crowley’s face and was gone. Azira was sure he’d misinterpreted it, though. Crowley’s glasses made reading the man difficult at the best of times.

“…for two years? Pull the other one,” Newt was saying to Adam as they rounded the banister and headed for the table. 

“It’s true. I used to have to sit on a stack of newspapers.”

“How did you not slide off?”

Bristling, Anathema appeared next as she stomped up the last stair, followed closely by Shadwell.

“It’s a fair question, lass.”

“It’s misogyny, plain and simple.”

“Misogy-what?”

Anathema scoffed, whirling away from Shadwell in disgust. But when she met Azira’s gaze, she paused, her expression changing from repugnance to surprise. She looked from Azira to Crowley and back again, and a familiar look of curiosity settled onto her countenance. Azira knew her too well to hope she hadn’t guessed what Azira had been about, damn it all. He had never admitted his predilections to her, but he suspected she’d figured it out long ago.

“What’s the plan today, gentlemen?” she asked, folding her arms.

“Not the bloody docks,” Crowley grumbled.

“Oh, are those crepes?” Adam asked, eyes large and hungry.

“Help yourself, dear boy,” Azira said, indicating the kitchen where the stack of remaining crepes sat cooling on the sideboard. “All of you, please.”

“Where did they come from?” Shadwell asked, suspiciously.

“Crowley made them,” Azira said.

“ _Crowley_ made them?” Anathema repeated, surprised for the second time.

“Yes, I made them,” Crowley hissed back, the words _not for you lot_ seeming to hang in the air between them.

As Newt, Shadwell, and Adam made quick work of the remaining crepes, Azira polished his off while filling Anathema and Crowley in on Shadwell’s role as Keeper of the Scroll.

“Really? You think nipple-boy is the key to finding the scroll?” Anathema said, eyebrow raised.

“He does seem a bit odd, but if he’s telling the truth about his wife, then yes. And don’t forget, Lucifer thought him significant enough to have discovered and noted his address.”

“Point there,” Crowley acknowledged. “But even if he is the Keeper, s’not going to do us much good unless he remembers.”

“Which is why I want to take him back to his house. Perhaps something there will jog his memory.”

“Absolutely not, angel,” Crowley objected. “Last time you were there, you had to jump off a cliff.”

“Just a small cliff,” Azira said, registering Crowley’s indignant spluttering as a sign that his response had been a mistake.

“I don’t see that we have much choice,” Anathema said. “I spent last night pouring over the sketch you memorized from the page on Lucifer’s desk, but there’s still a piece missing.”

She pulled the illustration that Crowley had drawn the previous morning from her pocket and smoothed it out on the table, where Azira had been holding Crowley’s hand only moments before. Azira clenched his fist at the memory, as if doing so might hide it further from discovery.

“See this arrow here? There’s no accompanying label the way the other arrows have labels. I believe that Agnes rubbed it out on purpose. That’s the piece we need to get to the first test. I’m sure of it.”

Azira looked to where she was pointing. It did indeed seem as if a piece were missing. The illustration was of a single Greek column. Without a definitive name, it could be any column anywhere in Byzantium. And there were no shortages of columns in Alexandria, either. Perhaps the book had been open to a random page after all. Perhaps the missing label was simply a forgotten detail.

“I am attempting to cross reference any mention of columns to what I remember from my mother’s journal, but it’s going to take some time.”

Azira nodded. “You stay and continue that effort, while the rest of us take Shadwell back to his house to look for clues.”

“We’re close, Dr. Fell,” Anathema said, squeezing his shoulder. “I can feel it.” 

When she turned to leave, however, Shadwell scrambled to block her exit, hoisting the blunderbuss to his shoulder. 

“I canna let you pass without a military escort, lassie, until you answer—”

“Yes! I’m a witch, damn it, and I have fifty nipples!”

Shocked into an inability to move, Shadwell let her pass while Newt and Adam chuckled to themselves.

Azira sighed and got to his feet, taking his and Crowley’s dishes to the sink where Newt graciously washed up, so that Azira could keep his splint from getting wet. 

“Shadwell, I need you to think back to what your wife said about the scroll,” Azira said when he rejoined the man in the sitting area. “Did she leave you anything? A document, a book, a piece of jewelry? Anything?”

Shadwell scratched his head. “I dinnae ken about a book, but I do have her jewelry box.”

“That’ll do for a start. Adam, is the Bentley ready?”

“Always, Dr. Fell.”

So it was that a few minutes later Azira found himself squeezed uncomfortably between Newt and the tiny back window of the Bentley, Shadwell having claimed the front seat next to Adam as he was prone to motion sickness. Still, it was better than being squeezed uncomfortably next to Crowley. God knew what would happen if all of Crowley were pressed up against him in such an intimate space.

“Are we there yet?” Crowley groused from the other side of Newt. “My bones are being pulverized into dust. When was the last time you had this monstrosity serviced?”

Adam looked over his shoulder, narrowly missing a pedestrian. “Oh, you want to go faster?” he said with a maniacal grin.

“Adam, that’s not what he—”

Heedless of Azira’s commentary, Adam punched the gas pedal with his foot and rocketed them forward, veering through a veritable knot of carts and causing mayhem in his wake.

“Blast it all, Crowley! You just had to say something.”

“I am not the one who hired an _infant_ as a _driver_ in the first place!” Crowley shouted back while clinging to the seat in front of him for dear life. Though, that did not stop him from whooping in glee as Adam launched the Bentley off a small rise in the road to sail through the air before smacking the packed pavement again and screeching around a corner.

When they finally arrived at Shadwell’s house, Azira poured himself out onto the hot asphalt and nearly kissed it for its reassuring stillness.

“Uh, Dr. Fell?” Adam said, staring at the house with a concerned expression. Or not the house, exactly. The expanse of yard in front of the house.

_What now?_

Azira turned to see Lucifer himself along with half a dozen henchmen blocking the entrance to Shadwell’s house.

“Lads, if ye dinnae move your collective arses off my property by the time I count to three, you’ll be wearin’ yer entrails as fashion accessories,” Shadwell said as he brandished his antiquated firearm. 

“Stand down, Sergeant,” Azira said, coming forward. Crowley moved to either intercept or join him. Azira wasn’t sure which until Crowley came to a stop next to him, facing the threat by his side. “I’m sure we can conduct a perfectly civil conversation. We are, after all, standing in the broad light of day.”

Lucifer laughed, his wide-brimmed black hat providing enough shadow to render his features as difficult to make out as they had been in his darkened den beneath the Papyrus. Azira bristled. Lucifer had frightened him that night at the club. He’d seemed all powerful, but the truth was, Azira held all the cards. No one knew as much about the location of the scroll as him and Anathema, except possibly Shadwell. _And_ he had Crowley, who had connections all over Egypt for anything they could possibly need. Lucifer’s blunt-force cabal couldn’t possibly compete with that.

“Dr. Fell, I must say I am disappointed that you didn’t take me up on my offer of employment the other night. I would have provided a very generous compensation package.”

“I have other priorities, I’m afraid.”

“Such as?”

“I prefer to maintain the status quo.”

“Do you, now?”

Crowley stiffened next to Azira, clenching his hands and his jaw. Azira wanted to put a reassuring hand on his arm, but he dared not for so many reasons he didn’t want to think about, so he kept his hands to himself.

Lucifer, meanwhile, signaled to two of his men to circle around to the side of Shadwell’s house.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of searching this trash heap of a house.”

“Oi!” Shadwell said, brandishing his gun again.

“And I’m afraid we didn’t find much of use.”

“I think I will make my own determination of what I consider of use, if you don’t mind,” Azira said with the most contemptuous tone he could muster. “I am the resident expert.”

“Yes, well, had you decided to enter my employ, I might have let you examine the contents of the house to make that determination. However, since you are, in fact, working counter to my interests, I’m afraid I can’t let that happen.”

Azira took a step toward the house. “I beg your—”

“Get back, angel!” Crowley yelled, tugging Azira to the ground just as the house erupted in a fireball explosion.

“Good lord!” Azira said once his head had cleared from the deafening report.

“No!” Shadwell yelled, running toward the conflagration. 

“Stop!” Azira yelled as he and Newt tackled the man to the ground.

Shadwell continued to struggle to free himself. “My house! They torched my house!”

Despite Azira’s superior strength and Newt’s ample help, Azira had a difficult time keeping the man from squirming out of his hold. 

“Crowley! Do something!”

Crowley looked at him, then looked at Lucifer, then looked at the house. And took off at a dead run into the flames.

“Not that!” Azira yelled after him. But it was no good. Crowley was already through the collapsing door frame and racing up the blazing stairs.

Azira swore as he let go of the no-longer-struggling Shadwell and got to his feet.

“What a bampot,” Shadwell said as he stared at where Crowley had been a second ago.

_Crowley_ … Azira stumbled unthinking a few steps in the direction of the house, his heart pounding. But he pulled himself up short before reaching it and stalked over to Lucifer instead. 

“You fiend! If he dies, so help me, I will end you with my bare hands.” 

“I didn’t send him in there,” Lucifer said, seeming lost in thought. “Though I really do wonder what he hopes to achieve by going.”

Accepting that screaming at Lucifer was not going to get Crowley out of that house, Azira strode back with purpose toward the house himself, whipping off his coat to wrap around his head.

“Dr. Fell!” Adam yelled and pointed towards a shadow in the interior of the house.

Crowley stumbled out onto the porch, clutching a black wooden box and coughing fit to tear out his own lungs.

“Crowley!” Azira threw his arms around both man and box and helped him stagger closer to the Bentley.

Lucifer snarled, taking a step in their direction. As one, the men in his coterie fanned out, blocking the Bentley’s exit. But damned if Azira was going to let that stop him.

“Adam!”

“On it, Dr. Fell!”

“Newt!”

Without a word, Newt yanked open the car door closest to him, shoving Shadwell inside and pulling his own weapon in one smooth move. He pointed it straight at Lucifer’s obviously absent heart.

“Stay back!” he yelled, firing a warning just north of Lucifer’s shoulder.

Azira and Crowley dove into the back of the Bentley on top of Shadwell.

“We’re in! Go, go!” Azira shouted at Adam and Newt. 

Adam swerved the Bentley through a narrow gap between enforcers, taking several bullets to the side of the car. 

“Careful!” Azira shouted as Newt fired back, sending goons scrambling for cover.

But despite the dramatic exit, they managed to blast through the blockade with little damage overall. Crowley, though black with soot and still coughing, seemed to be fine. Not so much as a minor burn.

“Och, laddie! Yer squeezin’ my gizzards through my bawbag.”

“I have no idea what that means, but I sympathize, dear.”

“Is this—” Crowley paused to hack up more black sludge. “Is this the jewelry box? Her jewelry box?”

“Aye,” Shadwell said. “Get yer thumb out of my bleedin’ eye!”

“I do apologize,” Azira said, trying to shift to a less horizontal position.

“Stop wiggling, angel,” — _cough, cough_ — “I can’t concentrate with all this blessed _wiggling_.”

“Hand me the gun,” Newt said, gesturing towards the blunderbuss. “Gently!”

Azira wiggled more, to the tune of Crowley’s litany of curses, and managed to ease the gun out from between him and Shadwell. He angled the butt of it up at Newt, bending his wrist at an uncomfortable angle. Newt took the gun with a shaky exhale and slid it over to the front seat between him and Adam.

“Is anyone giving chase?” 

“Not yet,” Newt said, craning his neck to see behind them. “I doubt they’ll follow, though. After a display like that, they’ll have to lay low. The coppers may let a lot of things slide, but arson isn’t one of them.”

“Shadwell! That’s not your leg!” Crowley shouted, sounding so scandalized that Azira could not help but giggle. 

“What’s so funny?” Shadwell asked, sounding just as affronted as Crowley had sounded scandalized, and Azira’s fragile sense of equilibrium couldn’t take it anymore. He burst out in hysterical laughter, tears running down his face.

Adam soon joined him, with Newt chuckling along as well. Even from Azira’s compromised vantage point, he could see Crowley biting his lip to contain a smile and holding his sides when he couldn’t keep in an errant guffaw. Shadwell was the only one not laughing, and well that might be, since it was his house that had exploded.

That thought quickly sobered Azira. “I am truly sorry, Sergeant, for the loss of your house. You are welcome to stay with us for as long as you like. I will, of course, recompense you the monetary value of your items.”

With that, Shadwell brightened considerably, leaving Azira to wonder if he hadn’t just made a grave miscalculation.

When they finally dared return to Tracy’s townhouse, after ensuring they’d not been followed, Azira climbed as gratefully from the car as he had when they’d arrived at Shadwell’s, if for a completely different reason.

“What happened to you lot?” Anathema asked when they made their tired trek up to the top floor. “You smell like you were doused in motor oil.”

“Lucifer,” Azira said, groaning as he collapsed onto the couch. 

“Great,” Anathema said sardonically, but she put the kettle on for them, the blessed girl.

“We managed to snag a prize before being chased off, though,” Azira continued. 

Crowley handed him the box and said, “I’m going to clean up.”

Azira nodded as he took the box from Crowley and opened the lid. 

“What is it?” Anathema asked as she drew close enough to peer over his shoulder. Shadwell, Newt, and Adam gathered closer as well. 

“Maybe nothing,” Azira admitted. And indeed, when he opened the box, his heart fell. 

The box was empty.

Azira looked up at Shadwell with the obvious question on his face. 

Shadwell shrugged. “I just said I had the box.”

Azira closed his eyes and put his face in his hands. Then he felt a warm hand on his back. He looked up to see Crowley had returned, obviously not having bathed yet but as if he’d been on the way there and stopped to console Azira. He sat down on the couch next to him.

“It’s alright, angel.”

“It’s not alright, Crowley. You almost _died_ running into the fire like that, and for what?”

Anathema, perhaps sensing Azira’s mood, steered the bumbling Shadwell over to the table. Azira doubted any of it would trigger a useful memory, but he couldn’t fault Anathema for trying.

“I didn’t almost die,” Crowley said, sliding his arm around Azira’s shoulders like a sheltering wing. “And besides, sometimes nothing is just as good as something.”

“What do you mean? We can’t find the scroll with nothing. We can’t stop the apocalypse with nothing. We can’t even bargain with nothing. Nothing is useless.”

The kettle keened, and Newt went to cobble tea together from whatever they had in the kitchen. Adam scampered off down the stairs, likely to find something to nibble on.

Crowley tightened his hold around Azira. “Honestly, I’ve worked with less.”

Azira snorted indelicately. “And how did it go?”

“I’ll let you know.”

Azira looked at him then, his soot-covered cheek mere inches from Azira’s lips. He could even make out the corner of Crowley’s eye from beneath his glasses. His musky scent, still present even under the brimstone. All of it familiar and safe. All of it loosening the tight grip of anxiety from around Azira’s throat.

He looked quickly away, feeling Crowley’s hand on his arm like a brand now, rather than a balm. His cheeks burned, and he cast about for a distraction.

That’s when he saw it.

Shadwell had divested himself of his coat, and his shirt had rucked up under a worn brace to expose just a hint of his back. With no undershirt, Azira could see his skin. Specifically, a small slice of a clearly intricate tattoo.

He stood up in wonder, staring at the base of a very familiar pillar.

“Anathema,” he breathed. “Where is the page that Crowley drew?”

“The journal page? Why?” she asked, pulling it from under a pile of similar handwritten sheets of paper. 

He took the drawing from her and held it up next to Shadwell’s skin. It was a perfect match.

Anathema’s eyes flew wide as both Crowley and Newt approached.

“Sergeant. Please remove your shirt.”

“My shirt? Why in the name of the wee man would I be removin’ my shirt?”

“Please, just do it.”

Shadwell obeyed, exposing an immense tattoo with four distinct corners of detailed illustrations culminating in a fiery scroll in the center.

“What the hell is this?” Crowley asked, whipping off his glasses.

“It’s a map,” Azira said. “A map to the Apocalypse Scroll.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter coming soon! While you wait, feel free to check out [my other fic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraworos/works), or if you prefer, check out [all the amazingness from other GO fic authors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraworos/bookmarks) that I've bookmarked and recced.
> 
> And as always, come @ me on [Tumblr](https://miraworos.tumblr.com/). I promise not to bite. ;-)


	12. Angels and Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Azira confesses his history, learns a bit more about Crowley's, and solves the first major clue leading to the deadly scroll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally!! Another chapter done and posted. Thanks for waiting so long folks, as I wrote an entire other [multichaptered fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25091440) for the [Do It With Style Mini Bang event](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/diws_mini_bang/works). That's behind us now, though, so more Azira will be coming more frequently from now till the end!
> 
> This chapter was such a bear to write for all the plot happening. It required a whole heck of a lot of research. And credit absolutely goes to my beloved beta [Z A Dusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/works) for their advice and brainstorming sessions. They provided the linchpin that made everything else fall into place. This chapter would literally not exist without them.

“Crowley, I’m fine. Stop henpecking.”

“M’not  _ henpecking _ , angel. It’s science. Moving giant rocks with a bullet wound in your arm is  _ not _ the way to get it to heal.”

“It was one, medium-sized—”

“Giant-sized.”

“—slightly larger than medium-sized rock. It hardly weighed anything. And anyway, you said it was just a graze. Must we go over this again?”

“You ripped it open once already. Don’t act like I’m exaggerating.”

“I’m not acting like anything. You are exaggerating.”

“Look, angel—”

“Hey!” shouted Anathema, who was squatting to compare the base of Pompey’s Pillar to the illustration Crowley had drawn. “Can you both leave off arguing for five minutes? I am trying to translate the inscription.”

“Of course. I apologize, my dear,” Azira said, shooting a glare at Crowley and hefting a rock slightly larger than the last one just to annoy him. Crowley growled.

Anathema snorted and returned to her study of the inscription.

“Why are we here again?” Adam asked as he kicked at the dirt with his shoe. “Doesn’t seem like there’s much to find.”

“This used to be a temple to the god Serapis,” Azira answered. “Until it was destroyed in the fourth century.”

“Yeah, but now it’s just a heap of rocks.”

“Come now, Adam, it’s a heap of rocks with  _ history _ . Ancient history. Think about how long ago people worshipped here. At least thirty great-grandfathers ago. It’s mind boggling. Why, people back then would have—”

“Angel,” Crowley said with a pained face and a shushing gesture.

“I think I found something,” Anathema said, holding the paper at an angle and squinting at the inscription again.

“What is it, dear?” Azira said, budging in close to peer over her shoulder.

“Agnes wrote  _ angelorum _ , not  _ angelum _ .”

Crowley moved closer as well, brushing up distractingly against Azira’s thigh.

“So what?” he said, leaning even further into Azira’s personal space.

“It’s the wrong declension, obviously,” Azira said.

“Obviously,” Crowley mimicked him in a mocking tone.

Azira snorted but refused to rise to the bait. Crowley had been in a tetchy mood all morning, and only seemed to get grouchier as time passed.

“What does it mean for  _ us _ ,” Newt asked, leaning against the pillar until Anathema’s disapproving glare forced him to straighten up again. 

“I don’t know what it means. Yet,” she said, emphasizing the  _ yet _ . “But she clearly did it on purpose. It’s a clue.”

“Unless you misremembered the page you saw on Lucifer’s desk,” Newt said to Azira. “No offense.”

“None taken, dear boy,” Azira said, and somehow that simple statement managed to deepen Crowley’s scowl. “But I did note the wrong declension when I saw the illustration. I just hadn’t suspected it was intentional on Agnes’s part.”

“Couldn’t it just be a misspelling? It’s only two letters off,” Crowley observed.

“It’s unlikely that she’d have spelled it wrong in such a way that it still made sense in another context. But even if she had, it’d still be notable.”

“Which word is it again?”

“Angelorum,” Azira answered. “Of the angels.”

Anathema dusted her hands off on her skirt. “It was supposed to be  _ angelum _ —to the angel. Just the one.”

“That seems like a pretty far stretch for a clue, don’t you think?” Crowley asked.

Anathema shrugged. “If it isn’t a clue, we’ve lost nothing. If it is a clue, and we ignore it…”

“Wasn’t this pillar put here centuries  _ after _ the temple was built? Why would it hold a clue to the scroll’s whereabouts?” Newt asked.

“The clue was created by Agnes, and the pillar has been here since long before her,” Azira said.

“I don’t understand,” Crowley said. “I thought Shadwell was the clue.”

“Shadwell’s the map,” Anathema said, her annoyed look turning suddenly thoughtful. “Though it does beg the question.” 

She swiveled to watch the witchfinder, who was wandering the grounds with some sort of brass horn held up to his ear. 

“Sergeant!” Anathema shouted, waving him over. 

Shadwell startled at first, causing a cascade of pebbles and clouds of dust. 

“Did you know my mother, Agnes Nutter?” Anathema asked.

“Agnes Nutter…Agnes Nutter…” the old man muttered, rubbing his chin. “That’s a familiar name, now you come to mention it.”

“She kept a book.” Anathema mimicked writing with her hands. “A journal. She would have been here about twenty years ago.”

“A book…” The poor man looked confused, as if he’d never heard the word.

“A rectangular object, about yea big with a stack of paper bound inside it?” Anathema clarified in an exasperated tone.

Shadwell shot her a flat look and pulled an oddly familiar book from the interior of his oilskin jacket, which he apparently wore everywhere, regardless of the heat. “You mean, like this, lassie?”

Anathema’s jaw dropped and she staggered forward, ripping the book out of his hands.

“H-how did you get this?” she said, her voice thready and shaking.

“Is it—?” Aziraphale hurried closer for a better look. “It can’t be!”

“I’d recognize it anywhere.” Anathema gripped it to her chest. “I can’t believe it! How did you—where did you—?”

“Friend of the missus. Dropped in now and then. Left it wi’ us on her last visit before m’wife passed away.”

“But…but…why?” Anathema demanded, still looking paler than usual despite the midday heat. “And you just carry it around with you everywhere?”

Shadwell frowned. “Dinnae you do the same thing?”

Anathema’s jaw dropped open again. “I— But that’s not the same thing at all! Do you even know what it’s about?”

“Anathema, calm down.” Azira placed a hand on her arm. “What difference does it make now? We have the book! Or at least a version of it. Do you suppose it’s the same as our copy?”

“I…” Anathema thumbed through the pages, skimming through from beginning to end. “It’s handwritten…and missing the last chapter. Probably the final edits aren’t reflected. This is an early version.”

“Do you suppose it’s…?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head firmly. “It can’t be the original. She’d never have left it here in the care of some person who clearly is not in possession of all his faculties.”

“Ach, and there’s no call to tear me doon, lass.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s true. She wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t risk it.”

Crowley, who’d loitered at the back of the group for the most part, stepped forward then, his arms crossed.

“Or, if she did, maybe she had a good reason?” he suggested more gently than Azira would have expected.

Anathema shook her head again, eyes glittering behind her glasses. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to figure out what Agnes wanted me to do. Why wouldn’t she at least have entrusted me with her actual journal? Why would she give it to strangers?”

Crowley shrugged. “I don’t know, book-girl. But if I were going to leave a trail of clues using a map drawn on a person’s body, I’d sure as Satan leave a copy of the key to that map somewhere near it. It may have been the only copy of the book she had at the time.”

Anathema’s mouth trembled, but she straightened a bit and nodded. “You’re right of course.”

“And the good news is that we now have a copy of the journal again! Isn’t that wonderful?” Azira pointed out, trying to soothe her ruffled feathers. 

Anathema smiled weakly at him, opening the book again to run a finger down a handwritten page. “It may not be completely accurate, given that it doesn’t have her later edits,” she said.

“No, but it may have...” Azira said, his heart lightening still further with hope. “Quick, dear girl. Open to the drawing of the column.”

Anathema feverishly flipped to the drawing in question. She gasped as she saw it, and then held it up for everyone else to look.

“The inscription—it’s there,” Azira said.

“What?” Crowley asked, leaning forward to get a closer look at the drawing. “Is it the correct one or the incorrect?”

“It’s incorrect in this version as well,” Anathema said. “And it’s underlined. This is it. This is definitely the clue.”

“Do we know what it means?” Crowley asked.

“Well…” Azira racked his brain for some kind of reference to angels in either Egyptian or Roman mythology. But none was forthcoming. “Neither Egyptians nor Romans believed in angels, though the word angels did originate from the Greek  _ angelos _ , meaning messenger…”

“So, no, then?”

Azira looked at Crowley, then dropped his gaze. “No.”

“I see,” Crowley said as he turned on his heel and headed back toward the Bentley.

“But we’re closer!” Azira insisted as he trailed in Crowley’s wake, trying to keep up. He was sweating from heat and excitement. Well, heat mostly, but excitement as well. “Every discovery is an advantage over our adversary.”

Crowley spun abruptly, causing Azira to stop short enough that he had to grab his hat to keep it from flying off. 

“That’s what I’m afraid of, angel,” Crowley said, and then resumed his Bentley trajectory.

Azira huffed, annoyed. Some days Crowley was more hindrance than help.

When they got back to the brothel, Crowley begged off to run an errand. Azira was about to offer to go with him, but Madam Tracy beckoned him from the front step of the townhouse.

“I’ll be back soon,” Crowley said to Azira, his expression indicating more words lay on his tongue than he was willing to part with. 

“Mind how you go,” Azira replied. Crowley nodded before sauntering into the street to hail a cab. 

After watching Crowley alight into a car and close the door, some part of Azira’s heart in the cab with him, Azira hurried over to where Madam Tracy was waiting for him.

When he reached her, she produced a thin, white square of paper from her voluminous, multi-hued robe and handed it to him. The words  _ Imperial Cable Wireless _ stamped across the top caused Azira to swallow hard. He took the telegram from her and read it quickly. 

_ Brother, I look forward to further news of your efforts. Mother wishes your report forthwith. _

“Goodness, it isn’t bad news, I hope?” Tracy asked, concern flashing across her beautiful features.

“Oh,” Azira said, stuffing the telegram in his pocket. “No, not at all, thank you. Just a message from my brother.” He cleared his suddenly dry throat, resolving to find a cup of tea as soon as humanly possible.

“Why don’t you come to mine for a quick cup of tea, love? You look a bit peaky.”

“My dear, you’ve read my mind. I’d love one, thank you.”

Which is how Azira found himself entering the private den of the House Mistress herself. It wasn’t until he crossed the threshold that he thought to wonder about the propriety of what he was doing, and by extension what Tracy’s expectations might be of his accepting her invitation.

He stopped abruptly in his tracks for the second time that day and cleared his throat nervously.

“I do beg your pardon, Madam Tracy, but perhaps I ought not to be here after all? I do not wish to presume—”

“Stuff and nonsense, love. I know you’re gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide.”

“I…what?”

Tracy waved him to a rattan chair. “It’s alright, Dr. Fell, your secret is safe with me.” Then she winked at him as she filled the teapot and set it on the stove.

“I— I— Well…”

“So I take it your brother is not particularly keen?”

“No, not as such.” Azira sighed, letting go any illusion of continuing denial.

“Then he’s a tosser, and you don’t need him in your life.”

Azira smiled. “That’s kind of you. But it’s a little more complicated than that.”

Tracy placed a delicate saucer and teacup in front of him, and sat down in the chair across the small glass table with her own saucer clamped firmly in her fingers.

“Things are rarely as complicated as we imagine them to be,” she said, and sipped from her cup.

Azira sighed. “I come from a dynastic religious family with more wealth and influence than sense and compassion, I’m afraid. And my life’s work is largely dependent on their resources, especially now. I have tried to extricate myself from them in the past, and it…hasn’t gone well.”

Azira hid his embarrassment behind a sip of his own tea. Something about Tracy made him want to confess things he’d long buried. She smiled at him, open and generous, but surely she didn’t need his troubles to bear as well as her own. And anyway, there was a reason he’d stuffed his memories so far down inside himself that he never thought of them without cause. 

Tracy set down her cup and reached to the side of her chair for a bag. Pulling it onto her lap, she drew out a pair of knitting needles, a ball of baby-blue yarn, and what looked to be half a blanket.

“Do you mind, love? Dalila’s expecting in a month, and I need to have this crib blanket done.”

“Not at all, dear lady,” Azira assured her and sipped again.

She settled in, needles clicking pleasantly. Azira couldn’t help but watch them as they flicked to and fro, yarn looping over hooks, fingers flashing. He found it surprisingly soothing, and his head began to feel a bit heavy. He must still be recovering from his various injuries. Maybe Crowley was right. Maybe he needed more rest.

“You say you tried to extricate yourself from your family before? What happened, if I may ask?”

“Oh…” Azira was about to protest that she didn’t want to hear his past woes, but she had such a comforting way about her that he felt unaccountably safe in her presence. Maybe he would find, if not acceptance, then at least a small kernel of understanding. And at that moment, the desire for understanding became a tidal wave so overwhelming that he decided to take the risk. 

“It was some time ago. My first year at uni. I’d always loved school growing up—first, as a distraction from my own inadequacies, and then later, as an escape from a home life that was…regrettable at times. But it wasn’t until I went to Oxford that I truly understood the tyranny under which I existed. Even now, I only know it intellectually, and only when I focus on it consciously. In my heart, I still accept it as gospel, as simply the way things are.” 

Azira trailed off, mesmerized by the rhythmic clicking of the needles, basking in the cool, windowless room under the gentle breeze of a ceiling fan. He was already saying more than he’d intended to. More than he’d ever put into words before. Shaping the thoughts so concretely made him face them in a way he hadn’t before.

“What was it about Oxford that changed your view, love? The place itself? A person, perhaps?”

“James,” Azira said, though it wasn’t strictly true. He’d had doubts before he’d met the man. But his feelings for James had given him a focus for those doubts.

“I see,” Tracy said, kindly. “And how did James come into your life?”

“We were in the same class together. The second I saw him, it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. There was a seat open next to him, and I was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. I sat before thinking better of it, before even knowing what it was I was feeling. To be honest, I didn’t know for several months of acquaintance. I didn’t want to know.”

“And then something happened?”

“I drew further and further away from my family. Not on purpose. I just couldn’t find it in myself to write to them when it was much more pleasant to immerse myself in my studies or lay on the lawn with my head in his lap, talking of all the ways we’d change the world.”

“Of course you couldn’t. And your family didn’t press?”

“They didn’t at first. Busy with their own affairs, I’m sure. But before I slipped away from them entirely, my brother—Gabriel, the same brother who sent me here to Egypt—visited me unexpectedly. By then, James and I had…taken things too far. I was in love with him. And we…we…well, we did things that were not permissible by law. We were not the only ones, mind you. We had a community of like-minded fellows at Oxford. We accepted each other, and in the isolation of the university, it was easy to think we were normal, or at least not repugnant.”

“You are as normal as any of the rest of us, for what comfort that may bring you,” she said with a soft snort. “But you were saying…your brother visited unexpectedly?”

Azira almost balked then. The memories that were surfacing…none of them were pleasant. He didn’t want to revisit them. But the  _ click-click _ of the needles lulled the wave of discomfort back to a sea of calm, and Azira felt he could continue. After all, it had happened a lifetime ago. Relaying it now might almost feel like healing.

“He arrived unannounced at my dormitory room and entered without knocking. James and I…we were in the middle of…things…and Gabriel…didn’t take it well. He chased James out of my room without a by-your-leave, and when I objected…when I dared to stand up for myself, for my choices, Gabriel flew into a rage. He destroyed my room. And when I wouldn’t renounce my relationship with James, when I wouldn’t swear before God to never see him again, Gabriel hit me.”

A small sound escaped Tracy’s lips, but she didn’t comment, so Azira continued. 

“I’d never been hit like that before, and it felt awful. Worse than the pain. It wounded something deeper, even though Gabriel and I were hardly close before.”

“I went to check on James. Gabriel had frightened him, and I didn’t want to leave it like that. I wanted to comfort him. But he wouldn’t see me. I tried to apologize. I wrote him letter after letter, imploring him to run away with me. But I didn’t receive a response until a few weeks later, when he sent me a terse note saying not to contact him again. So…I didn’t. And my family carefully swept the entire event under the rug and never spoke of it again.”

“Oh, Dr. Fell…” she said, sounding sad. “How long were you and he together?”

“Two years,” Azira said, still feeling the sorrow of it. “Two halcyon years. But if Gabriel were capable of scaring him off, then perhaps it was for the best that it never went any further.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Tracy said. “Doesn’t make it fair.”

“No, it does not,” Azira agreed. “Nor easy to recover. So to distract myself from my grief at losing James and my rage at Gabriel’s interference, I took up boxing. I vowed I’d never leave myself defenseless again.”

“That was wise no doubt,” she said. Then she set aside the knitting needles and stood up. “I don’t know about you, love, but I need a refill.” She took their cups back to her kitchenette for a fresh pour.

Azira watched her go, feeling more rested and content than he had in a long time. More so than he probably should, given the circumstances. He still needed to decipher Agnes’s clue about the angel, find the scroll, and destroy it before Lucifer beat him to it. Yes, come to think of it, he really should be on his way.

“Thank you, my dear, but I do believe I should be—”

“What about Crowley?”

Azira froze midway up to standing at the mention of the man’s name, his heart thumping painfully. Did Tracy suspect his feelings? In the time it took for him to collapse back into the rattan chair, he had a silent but vicious panic attack.

“What  _ about _ Crowley?” he asked.

“Have you told him of your troubles with your family? Seems like something he ought to know if he is in their employ.”

Azira’s eyes fluttered closed as he breathed a thorough sigh of relief. By then, Tracy had returned with his teacup, and he couldn’t in good conscience leave until he’d at least finished half of it. He sipped at once to cover his flushed countenance and trembling hand, and instantly regretted it as he burned his tongue. He set the cup down to answer her question instead.

“I haven’t, as such. Not in that much detail, at any rate. He knows there is no love lost between myself and Gabriel. He knows that something happened, just not what.”

“Maybe you should tell him?”

Azira shook his head firmly. “No. I shouldn’t even have told you, though I very much appreciate your supportive response. It is too dangerous. I would be confessing to a crime, albeit decades old at this point. And he could easily report me if he’s not as compassionate as you.”

“I have known Crowley for some time, and I don’t think he would do that.”

“Is he…?” Azira couldn’t bring himself to say the word, nor quash the treacherous hope that had risen unbidden in his chest.

“I don’t think so, love,” Tracy said, pausing to sip her tea. “But he commanded men in the war, you know. He’s not unaware of these things. I think he even has some old war chums who live together.”

Azira fiddled with his teacup, turning it in his hands as he asked as nonchalantly as possible, “Did you know him back then?”

“No, but I met him not long after. He’d been wounded, and at the time I was a nurse. He was brought to me by some…friends…and he lived with me while he recovered. We grew to know each other well enough to become friends ourselves.”

“He told me he’d hurt his eyes during the war but not how. What happened to cause them such distress?”

Tracy studied him for a full minute before answering, her gaze unnervingly piercing. It was as if she could see through to his heart. He hoped that she could see that he cared for Crowley, just not how much or in what way. 

Apparently content with the findings from her inspection, she answered, “He was accused of treason and tortured for three days.”

“What?” Azira nearly fell out of his chair, teacup and all. “That can’t— You can’t be serious. He would never!”

Tracy’s expression flared with satisfaction, as if she’d taken a risk and been proven right.

“You are quite sure of that, are you?”

“The man is pig-headed, loyal, and protective to a fault, even of people he barely knows and can’t possibly care about on a personal level. He would never betray the men in his command.”

“You’re right. He never would, and he didn’t. His commanding officer was abusive and selfish. He cared more about winning than he did about the safety and wellbeing of the troops at his disposal. Crowley did what he could to shield his men from the more asinine orders, coming up with, shall we say,  _ creative _ , ways to attain their objectives without the heavy losses that other regiments experienced. In any other brigade, he’d have received commendations, but instead he was treated as a rebel, a loose cannon, so to speak.”

“But if he was effective and took care of his regiment, then where did the accusation of treason come from?”

“As I said, his commanding officer was awful. Very like your brother, I’d imagine. Constantly on the lookout for how to draw and quarter Crowley. He’d managed to drum up a few minor offenses to punish him for—cut his rations, temporary confinement to barracks, that sort of thing.”

Azira gasped in outrage at the very idea of anyone’s rations being cut, let alone Crowley’s. Especially during wartime! He clenched the cup so hard he was afraid he might break it, so he set the tea aside and twisted his fingers instead. The thought of Crowley hungry caused a fine red mist of anger to suffuse him. If he had that miserable excuse for a commanding officer in front of him and the wherewithal to dispatch him, Azira couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t use it.

“Then the Battle of Megiddo happened in 1918. The Allies won the battle decisively, thanks in part to Crowley’s strategy of creeping barrages that covered infantry attacks. He and his regiment had perfected the technique in Krithia when they’d figured out how effective it was at cutting through trench warfare. Completely rousted the Ottomans, you know. Won a battle honor for that one, he did. They all did.”

“But if he got a commendation, then how—?”

“I’m getting to that, love. After the battle, his commander, a man named Henley, took all the credit for Crowley’s scheme, which didn’t sit well with Crowley’s regiment. Rumors spread of Henley’s deceit and general mistreatment of the men. Henley struck back, of course, making Crowley’s men’s lives miserable. One of the men even died of exposure one night while being disciplined harshly for a minor infraction, and Crowley snapped. Rather than go up the chain of command as he should, he challenged his superior officer in front of the entire brigade. I’m sure you can imagine how that went.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Azira said, rubbing the bridge of his nose at the thought. “Henley didn’t take that well, I suppose.”

“He accused Crowley of sedition and sentenced him to hang.”

“But surely there was a process to be followed? A trial? The British Army isn’t in the habit of hanging its officers out of spite!”

“It was wartime. And I’m pretty sure Crowley aimed a gun at him. Maybe even pulled the trigger. I’m a bit fuzzy on the details there.”

“Well, something must have changed Henley’s mind?” Azira said, hoping he’d now heard the worst of the story. 

But Tracy shook her head. “No, Henley was bent on destroying Crowley. He ordered him held in isolation for days, tortured him to give up the names of spies that never existed, that Crowley wouldn’t have known if they had. It was all a cover, you see, to allow Henley to do what he liked.”

“Tortured how?” Azira asked through gritted teeth.

“Mostly what you’d think. Henley wasn’t particularly imaginative, which was part of why he hated Crowley so much, I dare say—sleep deprivation, stress positions, beatings.”

“Where is this blackguard now?” Azira asked, his head ringing with fury. 

“Dead,” Tracy said perfunctorily with not a whiff of sympathy. “Died mysteriously in his sleep several months later. I’m sure Crowley wasn’t his only enemy.”

Azira grunted in frustration, but perhaps it was for the best. He didn’t have the luxury of hunting down Crowley’s tormentor and bringing him to justice at the moment. The scroll had to take precedence. 

“How did Crowley escape?”

“The night before his hanging, a few of Crowley’s men contracted some civilian ruffians to break Crowley out of isolation. It was messy, and Crowley was injured further during his escape.”

“His eyes…”

Tracy nodded. “In order to reach him, his men had to cause a distraction. They set an explosion near the garrison entrance. Unfortunately, Crowley wasn’t expecting the blast, and was too close.. The light and heat of it permanently damaged his corneas. Flash burn, you see. He can still see, but they’re permanently sensitive.”

“So he said.” Azira sighed heavily and rubbed his face. “This explains…a lot, honestly.”

Tracy placed her hand on his arm. “I hope I didn’t distress you, love. I brought it up to illustrate the point that I don’t believe Crowley would judge you. He doesn’t…work that way. Do you get my meaning?”

Azira nodded, slowly. Though he still felt quite rested after his chat with Tracy, he also felt wearier than he had before he’d entered. It was a burden to bear, this history of Crowley’s. He was afraid he was going to need a drink stiffer than tea while he processed the new information.

“Thank you, Madam, for the tea and the conversation. I’m afraid I must get back to my work now, but I appreciate it, truly.”

“Any time, love,” Tracy said as she got up to see him out. “My door is always open.” She paused, smiling. “Well, almost always. Definitely knock first.”

“Of course,” Azira smiled back.

“One more thing, Dr. Fell,” she said as she opened the door for him.

“Please, call me Azira, my dear.”

“Azira…I know you’re new to Egypt, and I just want to warn you that things are not always what they seem.”

“I’m beginning to understand that,” Azira agreed ruefully as he lingered in the doorway.

“Even when you discover something, there are often five secrets below the surface that change the nature of the discovery considerably. Don’t leap to conclusions, is what I’m saying. It can prove dangerous.”

Azira nodded again, though with less certainty this time.

“Sometimes the person you trust the least is the one who will help you the most. The Samaritan principle, you know.”

“Of course,” he said, calling to mind the story of the Good Samaritan as she mentioned it. The part of the story that was often forgotten in the telling was that the Jews and the Samaritans despised each other. That a Samaritan would stop and help a wounded Jew on the side of the road was notable because Samaritans were so looked down upon. 

And then finally the word  _ Samaritan _ punched through his consciousness like a freight train. He stumbled back into the doorjamb, hand to his mouth in shock as his thoughts connected and toppled like dominos, everything falling into place.

“Oh, my God,” he said, staring at Tracy.

“Are you quite alright? Do you need another cup of tea?”

“No! I have to go. Thank you so much, my dear. You have solved it!”

Then, impulsively, he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek before turning on his heel.

“Oh, my,” Tracy said as Azira rushed off. “Solved what, I wonder,” he heard as he rounded the banister and ascended quickly to the penthouse suite.

When he arrived, he burst through the door to the loft only to find it empty. He raced back down the stairs, and pounded on Anathema’s door until she opened it. From her disheveled appearance, she seemed to have just woken from a nap.

“I’m terribly sorry for the disruption, my dear girl,” he said as he rushed past her and into her room. “But I believe I may have figured out the  _ angelorum _ clue!”

“What? How?” she asked as she lunged towards her nightstand for the journal she’d taken from Shadwell.

“Angels were not a part of Egyptian or Roman tradition, but they  _ were _ , well,  _ are _ , a part of Christian theology, yes?”

“Of course,” she said.

“I am a complete dunce for not remembering straight away.”

“Remembering  _ what _ , Dr. Fell?” Anathema said.

Azira paced, hands behind his back. “The Samaritans, you see? When I was a boy, my mother read everything related to Christianity. Everything. She had copies of all the apocryphal bibles, the Latin Vulgate, the Greek Septuagint, the  _ Samaritan Pentateuch _ .”

“Where are you going with this?”

“The Samaritans tell of the sacking of the Serapeum of Alexandria, but they tell it differently. They say an angel of the lord came to the Alexandrian Christians and told them not to suffer the pagan gods or those who worship them to dwell longer in the city. The angel had a sigil. It wasn’t on the column, but maybe it’s somewhere else. Maybe the  _ sigil _ is what we need to be looking for.”

“What’s all the racket about?” Newt said as he wandered in from down the hall, Adam on his heels. 

“Yeah, I was about to take him to the cleaners in Egyptian Rat Screw,” Adam said, brandishing a handful of cards. “This better be good.”

Azira ignored them in favor of saying, “What does Agnes say about the sacking of the temple? Are there any illustrations?”

Anathema flipped to the relevant part of the journal and skimmed a few pages before crying out in triumph. “Here it is! It’s not an illustration, but a description. By the way she’s phrased it, it should look something like this.”

She took a pencil from the desk in the corner and drew in the margin of the book. Then she held it out for everyone to see.

It didn’t look at all familiar to Azira, and he couldn’t help feeling a bit demoralized at that. If they had to comb the city for a single symbol, it could take them months before they found it. Even if it was at the Serapeum ruins, it could be buried under ten feet of dirt, for all they knew.

“I don’t recognize it,” Anathema said, sounding as disheartened as Azira felt. “Perhaps I’ve drawn it wrong?”

Azira looked hopefully up at Newt, but he shook his head, equally as perplexed.

“Well, I can’t say whether you’ve drawn it wrong,” Adam piped up from the other side of Newt. “But I’ve seen that symbol before.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many things in this chapter were inspired by actual real events that my mind is blown every time I think about it. It always amazes me when real life events conspire so perfectly to fit in with a fic. It's one of my absolute favorite things, and I end up learning a lot more about the world along the way.
> 
> The [Serapeum of Alexandria](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Serapeum_of_Alexandria) was a real thing, and more of its secrets will be revealed in the next chapter.
> 
> [Pompey's Pillar](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pompey%27s_Pillar_\(column\)) is real, though the inscription in the story is completely fabricated.
> 
> And believe it or not, the [Battle of Megiddo](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Megiddo_\(1918\)) really happened in 1918. (There were a few of them over the millennia, in fact, but this one actually happened during WWI!!) Even the description of Crowley's "creeping barrages" was true to how the Allies actually won that battle. I honestly cannot make this stuff up. Truth is so much stranger than fiction sometimes.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed reading this chapter as much as I did writing it! <333


	13. Signposts and Pitfalls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley comes to terms with the fact that he has absolutely no control over his life anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it's been a while, dears. I got caught up in another multi-chaptered epic for a Halloween exchange. But that's all settled, and we're back in the land of Egypt! As a reward for your unfailing patience, I will be posting chapter 14 tomorrow! :-D 
> 
> Thanks ever so and always to my beloved beta [Z A Dusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/works) for helping me wrangle these two into some semblance of sense, and for pointing out where parts needed to be expanded for optimal story experience. ;-)

_One hour ago_

Crowley slunk into the Papyrus Club three hours late for his meeting with Lucifer. With all the hullabaloo over the witchfinder’s tattoo, there hadn’t been an opportunity for him to sneak away earlier. Besides, damned if Crowley was going to let Azira out of his sight again unless he was in the brothel and under Tracy’s direct supervision. The man could not be trusted to keep himself out of trouble for even a single day.

The image of Azira slumping to the ground, blood all over his sleeve, played on a loop in Crowley’s mind as he dragged himself down the staircase leading to Lucifer’s lair. _It can’t happen again. It can’t._ He thought it like a mantra that might somehow protect the angel. He’d never believed in such things before, but what could it hurt?

“‘Bout time, snake eyes,” Hastur said from a doorway as Crowley passed. “Boss hates waiting.”

“Well aware, thanks,” Crowley said, walking by without stopping.

“Hey.” Hastur grabbed Crowley’s arm and tugged him to a stop. “Boss knows you’ve gone native.”

“Really?” Crowley said, yanking his arm free from Hastur’s grip. “S’that because you keep telling him so?”

“You’re a damn traitor.”

“You’re a damn idiot.”

“That’s enough,” Ligur said, coming up from the direction of Lucifer’s office. “You’re late, Crowley.”

“Look, do you all _want_ me to do my job? Or would you rather the professor beat you to the punch? Because he will, if you give him half a chance.”

“Or we could do the smart thing and take him out of the picture altogether,” Hastur said.

Crowley’s fist flew of its own accord, connecting with Hastur’s fucking face before Crowley even knew it was in motion.

“Damn it, Hastur,” Ligur said. “Why can’t you just shut your fucking mouth for once?” Then he turned to Crowley. “And you, keep your fucking hands to yourself. I swear to Satan, working with you lot is like managing toddlers. Boss wants you _now_. I wouldn’t keep him waiting any longer if you value breathing.”

He walked off in the opposite direction, as Crowley threw one last glare at Hastur and continued to Lucifer’s office.

“You better hope your boyfriend in the waistcoat has some actual use, or Boss’ll make you dust him yourself,” Hastur called after him, and it took every shred of self-control Crowley had not to go back and deck him again.

“Anthony,” Lucifer said, his tone cold and reproving, when Crowley entered the inner sanctum.

“Sorry m’late, Boss,” Crowley said as he approached Lucifer’s desk.

“I’ve disemboweled men for less,” Lucifer said, gesturing with a flick of his hand to a chair opposite him.

“Have to make it look authentic, don’t I?” Crowley said with more confidence than he felt. “Couldn’t get away without raising suspicion.”

“Try. Harder.”

“Will do.” 

He watched Lucifer carefully for any signs of sudden movement. Crowley might be the snakier of the two, but Lucifer was positively draconic. If it came down to a fight, Crowley would be stomped to oblivion in a blink.

“I hope you have something of value to report for my inconvenience.”

Crowley sighed heavily, feeling like the slimiest wretch that ever slithered. Then he spilled all he knew about Shadwell’s tattoo and Pompey’s Pillar.

Lucifer picked up a pen and made a few notes as Crowley talked. When Crowley finished, he set the pen down again and looked at Crowley with eyes devoid of all human feeling.

“Well done,” he said and leaned back in his chair, regarding Crowley as he did so as if studying an insect under a magnifying glass. “Now, what shall we do about our troublesome Dr. Fell, hm?”

“How about nothing?” Crowley said with what he hoped was a disarming smile. “He’s harmless.”

“And yet, he is constantly underfoot, beating us to the relevant clues every time. I am sure I don’t need to impress upon you how displeased I would be were he to succeed in finding and destroying the artefact before I claim what is rightfully mine.”

Crowley’s skin crawled under Lucifer’s unrelenting stare. “I have a plan.”

“You always have a plan, Crowley. Whether or not your plans have merit is less certain.”

“We can use him to our advantage. Rather than lead him off course to keep him out from underfoot, or conscript him and have to deal with him balking at every turn, just let me keep tabs on him. He trusts me. Let him figure out the clues for you, get through all the trials for you. Let him beat us to the scroll, and then I’ll pluck it from his hands and turn it over to you.”

Lucifer maintained a thoughtful silence for a few moments as Crowley squirmed internally. _Say yes, say yes, say yes..._

“And then what?” Lucifer said, his eyes narrowing. “Let him go on his merry way?”

“Does it matter? You’ll have the greatest power known to man. You can do whatever you want.”

“True. And yet, what I want is to punish any who would try to thwart me.”

Crowley stilled. “If he tries, I’ll kill him for you.”

Lucifer smiled then, or rather, not so much as smiled as salivated.

“I should like to see that.” Then after another moment of consideration, he said, “Very well. We’ll follow your lead for now. No more interference from us unless I see you faltering in your resolve.”

“No faltering here. I’m a company man, I am. Gotta stick up for the old firm.”

“Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

“If you ever do betray me, the things I will do to you will make your commander’s torture methods seem like the softness of a lover’s touch.”

Crowley swallowed hard, believing Lucifer’s threat completely. “Understood,” he said. “Shall I go?”

Lucifer picked up his pen again as well as the ledger it had been resting on and began to leaf through it.

Crowley took this as a sign of dismissal and scampered out as fast as he could without actually running.

Afterwards, he was too tetchy to go straight back. He walked the city aimlessly for over an hour, his mind going in circles, looking for a way out of their desperate situation. He’d bought them time, he’d even bought them a measure of peace, but he’d screwed the lid down tighter on any kind of attempt at escape. 

Lucifer was ruthless and he seemed to hold some kind of personal vendetta against Aziraphale, though Crowley couldn’t fathom what. Sure, the angel was highly exasperating and unrelentingly stubborn and cursed with some kind of masochistic save-humanity complex. But at the end of the day, he was just a college professor. A bumbling, sweet, unreasonably beautiful… er… uh… innocuous, yeah that was it, _benign_ academic with not a single vengeful bone in his body. What could a monster like Lucifer possibly have against him?

Unfortunately, Crowley was no closer to an answer when he finally returned to the brothel, so he tromped moodily into the lobby, even more aggravated than when he’d left. So of course, Azira was already halfway down the stairs, waving a picture at him, babbling nonsensically and all a-wiggle over something that Crowley couldn’t possibly piece together. The others had followed the angel down the stairs, looking nearly as confused as Crowley.

“Wait, wait, wait, angel. Bloody hell, take a breath. What is going on? Samaritan what? Pentacle?”

“Penta _teuch_ , dear,” Azira corrected, practically glowing in the lamplight. “It’s the Samaritan holy book. Anyway. There’s a symbol that we think might point the way to the— Well, the you-know-what. Adam’s seen it. He’s about to take us there.”

“Whoa,” Crowley said in alarm, moving to block the overexcited academic from the door. “You were just going off to chase a lead without me? Without even _telling me_?”

“I-I-I guess I got carried away,” Azira said, looking suddenly contrite.

Crowley rubbed his forehead to ease the headache forming in the place where his patience used to be. 

“For the last time, angel,” he said, with what he considered to be admirable restraint. “Either we go together, or you stay put. It’s literally the only rule.”

Azira scoffed. “I’m not a child, Crowley.”

“Just—” Crowley bit off the expletive-laden rant he’d been about to go on, clenching his jaw and inhaling as much calm as he could before continuing. “No one is saying that you are incapable. I just…need you…to comply with…this one…thing.” Then after a significant look from Newt, he ground out, “Please.”

Azira straightened, tugging down his waistcoat. “Well. Fine. I would have waited for you, if I hadn’t just been overcome with— Actually, where _have_ you been? You’ve been gone hours.”

“Oh, you know…” Crowley dodged, badly. “Errands. Er…for Tracy.”

“For Tracy?” Azira said. “She didn’t mention it.”

“Personal errands,” Crowley said, doubling down on the lame excuse. “Of a sensitive nature.”

“Ah,” Azira said, though he didn’t sound convinced. “Well anyway. Are you coming with us, then?”

Crowley grit his teeth. “Coming _where_ , Azira?”

“I have no idea.”

Crowley felt his last shred of patience evaporate. “Well that’s just bloody fabulous.” 

“I’ll explain on the way.”

“By all means,” Crowley said, gesturing flippantly with his hat for the group to continue through the door. Then he plunked the fedora back on his head and followed, shutting the door firmly behind him.

They couldn’t fit everyone in Adam’s Bentley, so they split up—Adam, Azira, and Crowley in the car, while Anathema, Newt, and Shadwell squeezed into Newt’s blue, three-wheeled clunker. They caravanned to Adam’s destination and parked across the street from what appeared to be a restaurant in a bustling part of town, just across the way from the Serapeum ruins.

No, not appeared to be. Was. It was a bloody restaurant.

“Really, Adam?” Crowley said with a tired sigh as they all stood out on the street gazing up at the sign, the sigil ominously reminiscent of the paper-drawn sigil in Anathema’s hand.

“What?” Adam said defensively. “I said I’d seen it before, and here it is.”

Crowley palmed his face, and Azira fidgeted, regarding the restaurant sign with such a look of abject disappointment that now Crowley just wanted to yell at it. An inanimate object. For disappointing Azira. This was beyond ridiculous.

“Well, this has to be a dead end,” Azira said finally. It was frankly the only time Crowley’d ever seen Azira _disappointed_ while standing in front of a restaurant. “This establishment can’t have been here since the fourth century. The sigil isn’t even carved in. It’s just…painted.”

“Thought you said it only had to be here since Agnes,” Newt said. 

“Oh, fair point, dear boy,” Azira said, brightening. “I suppose this place could have been around a couple of decades. It’s not a new sign.”

“Well, we aren’t going to find out standing around out here, are we?”

Crowley jumped as Pepper popped out of nowhere to make the comment. She’d clearly eavesdropped on their conversation back at the brothel and then followed them.

“What the Heaven are you doing here?” Crowley demanded.

“I’m coming with you,” she said, setting her stance and her expression to their most defiant.

“No you’re not,” Adam jumped in. “It’s too dangerous for girls.”

“ _She’s_ going!” Pepper gestured at Anathema.

“She’s an adult!”

“You’re going, and you’re a kid!”

“I’m the driver. I can take care of myself.”

“Bollocks.”

“Language!” Anathema interjected.

“You lot are not setting a foot through that door without me if you ever want to eat my koshary again.”

“Girls,” Adam muttered in disgust, shaking his head.

“He is perhaps acting rather the philistine about it, but he’s not entirely wrong, dear,” Azira said. “It could very well be hazardous.”

“Why do you even want to go?” Crowley asked her.

Pepper crossed her arms. “Someone’s gotta keep you lot out of trouble. Mr. Fell was gone for a whole day without your knowledge and came back even more banged up than when he left.”

Azira pressed his lips together. Crowley just knew the man was swallowing the _Doctor Fell_ ready to pounce off his tongue.

“This isn’t the circus, Pepper. You can’t just come along because you want to,” Adam said.

Azira turned his beautiful blue eyes on Crowley. “Say something, dear.”

He clearly wanted Crowley to back him up, to not let Pepper come. But Crowley wasn’t that selfless. He knew she’d make good on her threat, and he wasn’t about to give up Azira’s access to koshary. He’d never hear the end of it, and besides, he’d miss the opportunity to watch those eyelashes flutter closed in rapture.

“Well?” Pepper prodded.

Crowley looked her up and down, assessing her mettle. She drew herself up to her full height, looking fiercer by the second. 

“Fine,” he said at last. “Prove you’re helpful in the next five minutes and you can stay.”

“Crowley,” Azira said, disapprovingly.

“She’s already here,” Crowley said by way of defense. “And what’s she going to be able to accomplish in five minutes anyway?”

Azira gave him a flat, unimpressed look but followed him into the bright, noisy, smelly interior anyway.

Once inside, Crowley and the rest of the motley crew—fretful angel, baby driver, minuscule kitchen witch, misplaced conscience, book girl, and daft nuisance—traipsed up to the counter to talk to the staff. Crowley was fluent in the local language of course, even if the Alexandrians had a slight Mediterranean lilt that Cairo inhabitants lacked. And yet when he asked about the sign, the restaurant workers kept using words he didn’t know—or rather, that made no sense in the context of his question.

“Let me try,” Anathema said. She muscled forward and slapped the drawing of the sigil on the counter in front of the nearest server. “Can you tell us what this symbol means?” She said it in passable Arabic, but the answer came back the same. Garbled.

Pepper huffed and rolled her eyes, then disappeared into the kitchen. Likely, she was bored already and had decided to steal something from the recipe book. But a minute later, she returned to the group followed by a spotty young man with a dishrag over his shoulder. 

“What’s this?” Crowley asked.

“Me being helpful,” Pepper said, then gestured to the boy, who pointed them toward a set of stairs at the back of the restaurant.

“Good lord, not again,” Azira lamented.

“We could give it up and go home,” Crowley offered. “Probably some om ali left.”

But the temptation fell on deaf ears. Azira squared his shoulders and strode determinedly towards the stairs. Crowley sighed and hurried after him, quickly squeezing between Azira and the banister so that he was ahead of the determined angel.

“That is hardly necessary, Crowley. I am perfectly capable of going first.”

Crowley pointed at Azira. “Booksmart.” Then himself. “Streetsmart. Streetsmart always goes first.”

Azira snorted, but put up no further protest.

Crowley descended the stairs, looking everywhere at once. He probably should have brought a gun. Or some sort of weapon anyway. He didn’t much care for guns, but his bare hands weren’t going to do much against ancient death traps and world-ending scrolls. But then, neither would a gun.

When they got to the bottom of the steps, the entire room looked disturbingly like…a restaurant cellar.

“Looks like your being helpful wasn’t that helpful,” Adam said to Pepper.

“Shut it, you,” Pepper snapped.

“I don’t think…” Crowley started to say, until he caught the barest hint of shadow where no shadow was supposed to be along a crease of mortar down the wall. “Wait a second.”

“What is it?” Anathema said, producing a lighter from a pocket in her voluminous skirt.

Crowley took the lighter and stepped over a pile of rice sacks, wedging himself behind a metal shelf to get closer to the odd discrepancy in the masonry.

“Crowley, what do you see?” Azira said, stepping in too close behind him. Crowley took a steadying breath in through his nose and instantly regretted it, as his olfactory senses drowned in Azira’s bookish scent.

“Something’s off about the wall,” Crowley said, pointing to the barely discernible crack along the brick.

“Lots of walls have cracks,” Pepper said.

“This crack is perfectly vertical and in line with the mortar between the two bricks above. It’s too perfect to be a coincidence.”

Then he held up the lighter to the crack another row higher up, and the flame guttered toward them, as if blown by a breeze coming from behind the wall.

“There’s something back there,” Crowley said, dousing the light. “This isn’t a wall, it’s a door.”

He pushed against it, but it didn’t budge.

“Stand back, laddie,” the daft nuisance said as he brandished his sorry excuse for a rifle.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Azira snapped, grabbing the barrel of the thing and yanking it out of the man’s hands. “If Agnes led us here, there must be a way to get in that doesn’t involve spraying bullets everywhere. Really, sergeant. I’m surprised at you. There are children present.”

“Oi. I’m not a child,” Adam said.

“I was referring to Newt,” Azira said with a smirk.

“What?” Newt said, having just returned from exploring the other end of the cellar.

“Nothing,” Anathema said with an exasperated look at Azira.

Then Newt leaned a hand against the wall adjacent, seemingly wanting a better look at the coffee bag label, and the door behind Crowley fell open with a grinding noise and a mountain of dust.

Azira sneezed, and it was the loudest, most obnoxious, most adorable sound Crowley had ever heard in his life, which just made him love the angel all the more. Bless it all to Heaven.

“Gesundheit,” Shadwell said into the silence.

And then for some Satan-blessed reason, every single one of them turned to look at Crowley.

“What?” Crowley said.

“Well, are we going?” Azira asked, for all the world like Crowley was in charge of this travesty.

Crowley grabbed a splintered leg from a broken table in the corner, wrapped a scrap of burlap rice sack around the top, poured a bottle of kerosene over it, and lit it with Anathema’s lighter.

“Of course we’re going,” he said and led the way into the tunnel.

They hadn’t gone but a few steps before the peanut gallery piped up.

“Near as I can tell, we’re headed back in the direction of the Serapeum,” Anathema said.

“That makes sense, I suppose,” Azira chimed in. “The Serapeum ruins are not even a quarter mile from the restaurant’s location. And there are rumored to be tunnels beneath the ruins that no one has been able to access since the temple was sacked by the Christians.”

A pebble fell to the stone floor up ahead of them. Crowley tensed and shushed the idiots following in his wake like a flock of quacking ducks. There was no cover, so the light would give them away regardless. But he needed all his senses, damn it, if he was going to get them through this.

“We must be close,” Azira stage-whispered loud enough to echo down the tunnel.

Crowley glared at him until the angel pressed his lips obediently closed. Then Crowley gestured for them to form a single-file line and budge up to the right side of the cave. He led them forward gingerly, testing his footing as he went. If someone was ahead of them, they could have set a thousand traps by now.

“What are you worried about, Crowley?” Azira whispered more quietly near his ear, which caused all kinds of havoc in Crowley’s nerve endings. “Egyptians protected their tombs by making examples of thieves with harsh punishments, not by setting complicated booby traps.”

“We don’t know who built these tunnels or who’s been in them since,” Crowley hissed back as quietly as he could. “And just because the tombs we know about didn’t have anti-theft measures doesn’t mean none of them did.”

Adam perked up. “Maybe that’s why they haven’t been discovered yet. The traps killed whoever went to rob ‘em.”

“Thanks for that clarification, Adam,” Aziraphale said with a moderate dose of sarcasm.

“You’re welcome.”

“Besides,” Crowley continued, as if Adam hadn’t spoken. “We’re searching for the scroll, which is said to be protected by some kind of trial, and I’m not taking any chances.”

“Excellent point, dear,” Aziraphale admitted. “Shall we carry on, then?”

Crowley snorted and started walking again, congratulating himself for being the only person in the group with sense enough to be cautious. 

Which is why he really should have seen the first trap coming.

“Crowley, look—!”

A loud, mechanical sound like gears shifting echoed on the left side of the tunnel, as Azira slammed into him from behind, taking them both to the floor. Before they even hit the ground, something fast and powerful punched into the wall above them, showering them in shrapnel of dirt and rock.

“…out,” Anathema finished lamely from above them. “Are you okay?”

The whole troop crowded around them as Azira patted Crowley down.

“M’fine,” Crowley growled. Then he got to his feet, trying valiantly to ignore the tingling where Azira’s hands had touched him. “I guess that settles the question of traps.”

Then he stepped back to study the spear that had nearly pierced his skull, which was still embedded in the wall.

“I don’t understand,” Anathema said. “Nothing as old as these tunnels could have lasted that long. We’re talking thousands of years. Anything made of wood would have rotted to dust by now.”

Azira, who’d brushed off what he could of the dirt covering his shirt, turned to examine the spear with Crowley. He grasped the shaft and plucked it from the wall, releasing another small rivulet of dirt and pebbles.

“Ah, see?” he explained, showing the metal tip to the group. “The edging along the blade?”

“What about it?” Shadwell asked suspiciously.

“It’s completely historically inaccurate. The transition is all wrong for the length and composition of the shaft.”

Silence descended.

“It’s fake,” Anathema explained.

“Ohhh,” said Newt, Adam, and Shadwell together.

“Seemed real enough when it was trying to skewer me,” Crowley muttered.

“Well, it’s a real weapon,” Azira said. “It’s just newly made. Maybe five years old at most.”

“How can you tell?”

“It only takes wood about thirteen years to decompose,” Azira answered. “This wood is still fairly stalwart, though it’s getting softer around the joints.”

“So the tunnels are ancient…” Newt said.

“…but the traps are not?” Pepper finished.

“Correct. Or at least, that is my theory.” 

The angel smiled with satisfaction, as if he’d just solved a particularly tricky crossword puzzle in the Sunday paper. Crowley shook his head, mostly at himself. How had he fallen in love with such an innocent?

Crowley turned his attention to the floor, holding the makeshift torch uncomfortably close to the ground until he found what he was looking for. He handed the torch to Newt as he squatted down and lifted the twine to confirm that its trajectory matched that of the spear.

“Well, this is how I tripped it,” he said, indicating the now slack twine, which had been almost invisible in the darkness of the tunnel. He sighed again, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he got to his feet and picked up his hat where it had fallen in the kerfuffle.

“Do you think there are more of them?” Pepper asked, sounding excited.

“We have to be more careful,” he said, beyond aggravated that no one seemed to be taking this seriously.

“We are being careful, Crowley,” Azira said. 

But Crowley’d had enough, and his control snapped. He shoved Azira up against the rock wall he’d almost been impaled on not two minutes before and hissed as quietly as his anger and fear would let him,

“This isn’t just an expedition anymore. Whoever set that trap, and Satan knows how many others, is aiming to kill. And I will not allow you to get injured again. Let alone…let alone…” But he couldn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t say the word.

Azira placed his hands gingerly over Crowley’s where they fisted in Azira’s coat and gently disengaged them, holding them in his own as he guided them down. 

“I’m not going anywhere but with you,” Azira said, his blue eyes trained on Crowley’s.

Too late, Crowley realized they had an audience. He harrumphed and snatched the torch back from Newt.

“Stay close,” he snapped to the lot of them and whirled around to continue down the thrice-blessed tunnel.

“He’s acting like we’re the ones who tripped it,” Pepper muttered.

“And no talking!” Crowley said too loud, the words reverberating off the walls around them and down the tunnel to whomever was waiting for them. Fuck. He stalked off, albeit slower and more observantly.

Not five minutes later, Shadwell started nattering on at Anathema, which just made Crowley grind his teeth harder.

“Could be your kind what set the traps,” he said.

“Excuse me, my kind? You mean, female academic?”

“Witches like yerself'd know the rest of us wouldnae have a prayer of counting yer nipples in this Hell hole.”

Anathema scoffed in outrage, which would have been rather funny, if they both weren’t flagrantly flouting Crowley’s orders.

He was about to hiss at them both to shut up, when the bloody witchfinder sergeant bumped a lever on the floor that dislodged a platform set with pointed stakes from the ceiling.

“Watch it!” Crowley shouted as he bowled through the group, knocking idiots aside like pins. The platform narrowly missed his shoulder as it crashed to the floor behind them.

“Bloody--!”

“Yes, yes, we get it!” Anathema shouted him down before he could say anything.

Then another ten minutes passed of everyone remaining blessedly silent until Adam shouted in alarm and dropped nearly out of sight. Pepper dashed forward, snagging the back of his jumper. 

Newt helped Pepper haul him back from what turned about to be a pit with stakes pointing up from the bottom of it. The slight downward slope to the tunnel floor paired with bad lighting had concealed the treacherous opening.

“Ye were almost a pincushion, lad,” Shadwell supplied helpfully.

Ordinarily, Crowley loved being proven right. But in this instance, he could have happily lived with being wrong. 

Despite the near misses, they had yet to run into any sign of who’d laid the traps. Crowley could have sworn he heard shuffling occasionally further up the tunnel—a small kicked stone bouncing off the path here, a grit of dirt under a swiveling boot there—but he was too preoccupied with the very real threat of death all around them, to tell for certain.

Finally, the tunnel opened out wide into an empty circular room, twice again as tall as Crowley, if not more so, which was a relief after the cramped, low-ceilinged tunnel. 

“There’s nothing here,” Pepper observed.

“Excellent,” Anathema said with a cynicism Crowley heartily agreed with. “It’s a dead end.”

“Can’t be,” Newt said. “What was the point of all those traps otherwise?”

Crowley opened his mouth to say something cutting, when out of nowhere, a voice echoed through the cavernous room...

“LEAVE NOW OR DIE.”


	14. War and Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first of the four trials...

The voice boomed all around them, ricocheting off the chamber walls so that Crowley couldn’t tell where it was coming from. The group bunched up tight around Crowley instantly, so that he barely had time to lift the torch high enough to avoid setting one of them on fire.

“LEAVE NOW OR DIE.”

Azira, who’d been scrunched up close to Crowley, suddenly turned thoughtful and pulled away from the others.

“Angel!” Crowley hissed.

“I say, are you speaking English?” Azira shouted back at the disembodied voice.

There was a long pause before the voice answered.

“WHAT’S IT TO YOU?” it finally bellowed back.

“Oh, nothing, dear, it’s just… Well, you can’t exactly be guardians of a thousands-year-old scroll of doom and be speaking the King’s English, now can you?”

A loud thump as of a microphone dropping and rolling along the floor replaced the booming voice, until suddenly two boys about Adam and Pepper’s age appeared out of thin air in front of them.

“Uh, did you say scroll of doom?” said the one without the glasses. “Because that sounds wicked.”

“Brian,” the boy with the glasses said, elbowing Brian in the gut. “We agreed that I’d do the talking.”

“ _ You’re _ the ones who set the traps?” Crowley said, his voice sounding strangled even to his own ears.

“No,” said Brian at the same time as the boy with glasses said, “Yes.”

Crowley stared at them.

“Weel, which is it lads? Yea or nay?” Shadwell asked.

The boy with the glasses spoke up first. “Traps were here before us, but we keep ‘em in working order.”

“Nice,” Adam chimed in, clearly impressed.

“But…why?” Anathema asked.

“We got a right to protect our home, ain’t we?” Brian said with a shrug.

“You  _ live _ here?” Anathema said, sounding strangled now herself. “Where are your families?”

“Ain’t got one,” Brian said. “Wensleydale either.”

“We’re orphans,” said the boy with the glasses. "Parents died in the war, raised by welfare till we'd had enough and split."

“Isn’t Wensleydale a kind of cheese?” Pepper asked.

“Oi, and what’s your name then?” Brian said, coming to his friend’s defense.

“Pepper,” she admitted sheepishly. “But I wasn’t trying to make fun. I only wanted to know if it was the same or if I’d heard wrong.”

“You must belong  _ somewhere _ ,” Azira piped up. “You can’t just … you can’t just live down here in the dark and cold.”

“Better than the dry and blinding, you ask me,” Brian said. 

Crowley had to admit that he kind of agreed with that assessment.

“Isn’t anyone worried about you?” Azira insisted.

Brian and Wensleydale glanced at each other and then back to Azira. “We look out for each other, but otherwise…no.”

Azira tutted. “You can’t carry on like this, boys. It’s back to the surface with you at once.” He rummaged around in the small satchel he had attached to his belt and produced his small personal journal and pencil. “I have a message for you to carry to our lodgings mistress, Madam Tracy. She will—”

“Are you mad?” Brian interrupted him. “We’re not leaving. We love it here.”

“But…” Azira spluttered, stopping writing as he regarded them. “You can’t live here indefinitely.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not healthy for two young boys to live in an underground tunnel,” Anathema chimed in.

“We have our freedom,” Brian said, puffing his chest and standing tall. “That’s all we care about. Right, Wensley?”

“Ms. Device is quite right,” Azira said, scribbling something down in his notebook and tearing the page out. “You absolutely cannot live here. This isn’t even a  _ here _ . There’s no furniture, no  _ books _ . Are you boys even going to school?”

“School is for wankers,” Wensleydale said, sounding as if he were repeating something often heard but not really understood. 

“School is essential! It’s for bright boys who grow up to be good men,” Azira argued. “You need to go to school.”

Adam sighed loudly and stepped forward. “You’ll never get them to listen to you that way,” he said. Then he turned to address Brian and Wensleydale. “Listen, you two. You’re going to come back with us and do what these people say. Period.”

“What? No, we’re not,” Wensleydale said, just as Brian shouted, “Oi, who the hell do you think you are, short pants?”

“You  _ are _ , and here’s why. They’ve got food. Loads of it. Three squares a day, and all you can eat at each.”

A profound silence filled the chamber as Brian and Wensleydale stared at Adam.

Finally, Brian said into the stillness, “All you can eat?”

“Plus dessert,” Adam said. 

“And it’s good food,” Pepper jumped in. “I cook it myself.”

“They don’t care if it’s good, Pepper,” Adam said quietly. Then he shifted attention back to the boys again. “You in?”

“We’re in,” the boys said simultaneously.

“Oh, excellent work, Adam,” Azira said, as if he were about to give the boy a cookie for getting his sums right. He sobered quickly, though. “But we can’t take them with us right now. We have to find the scroll. Tonight. Before Lucifer gets any closer to it.”

“Angel, I don’t think…” Crowley started. “There is no more tunnel. It’s a dead end, remember?”

“No, it’s not,” Brian piped up. “It’s a maze of tunnels.”

“What?”

“You can’t see the entrances, because of the way this place was built. The walls look smooth, but they’re not, see?”

He stepped back against the wall and waved an arm up and down, except his arm suddenly looked as if it had been cut off at the elbow.

“What the devil?” Azira said, hurrying over to where Brian stood. “By Jove, he’s right.”

“They’re all around the room,” Wensleydale said. “And we’ve explored every last one of them.”

Azira wiggled in delight. “Have you ever come across any hieroglyphs or etchings or pictograms or anything? Even if faded or damaged, they could prove immensely useful.”

Brian shook his head. “Sorry—Dr. Fell, was it? Nothing like that. It’s all just blank walls.”

Azira wilted a bit under the news. “But surely you must have seen something.”

“Nope,” Wensleydale said.

“And you’re quite sure you’ve explored every tunnel?”

The boys hesitated and exchanged a significant look. 

“Well, not  _ every _ tunnel,” Brian said at last. “We’ve never been in the howling tunnel.”

“Excuse me, the what tunnel?”

“The howling tunnel,” Wensleydale repeated. “We don’t go there. We were told it goes to—”

This time Brian elbowed Wensleydale in the gut.

“Goes to where?” Crowley asked, a chill creeping up the back of his neck.

“It’s just a story.”

“And yet, you stayed away,” Azira said.

“The other boy who lived here before us. Jabari. He was nice enough. Showed us the traps and how to keep ‘em up. He told us the howling tunnel goes to hell.”

Azira smiled indulgently at them. “Now, boys, hell is a metaphysical place. You can’t get there through a tunnel.”

“We were doubtful, too,” Brian said. “But then one day, Jabari went a little squirrely. Claimed he heard someone calling him from inside the howling tunnel, convinced it was his mum. Took off running before we could stop him.”

“What happened to him?” Pepper asked in a small voice. 

“He never came back,” Wensleydale answered.

“How long ago did he leave?” Newt said.

“About six months?” Wensleydale said, looking to Brian for confirmation. Brian nodded. “Six months.”

Crowley had heard enough. He couldn’t condone letting their merry band go any further. The tunnel might be nothing but a trick of the wind. Or it might be something deadly, and he wasn’t about to let Azira walk into any more danger than he had to.

Crowley pulled the angel aside as the others chatted amongst themselves.

“You can’t seriously be considering exploring a questionable tunnel in the dead of night with barely any supplies. A tunnel that may possibly have eaten a child naught but six months ago.”

“It didn’t eat him, Crowley. We are men of science and exploration. We don’t believe in ghosts and mummies and curses. We believe in what can be seen and touched and understood with careful observation and testing. And yes, we are going into that tunnel.”

“Angel, I’m putting my foot down—”

“Best you pick it up again before we leave, dear, else you might fall over,” he said, patting Crowley’s cheek as if he were a child.

Crowley glared in irritation as Azira made his way back to the group.

“Alright, boys,” he said. “Can you lead us to this howling tunnel of yours? Then I’ll give you the letter to take to Madam Tracy, and you can be on your way.”

“Oh, no. We’re going with you,” Brian said.

“What?” Crowley said. “No, you’re not. You’re going to the surface, and taking kitchen-witch and taxi-boy with you.”

“Hey!” Pepper protested at the same time as Adam said, “I'm not leaving.”

“A tunnel to hell is no place for anyone under five feet tall. Sorry.”

“You need a guide!” Brian argued. 

“And a driver!” Adam chimed in.

“And a cook!” Pepper said. “Well, eventually.”

“And I…am also a guide?” Wensleydale added, looking uncertainly at Brian, who nodded again in solidarity.

“You can’t be guides if you’ve never been there,” Crowley said. “And we don’t need a car or a cook where we’re going.”

“I think it’s better if we bring them,” Anathema said. “It may be just as dangerous getting out as it is going in.”

“Can’t be,” Crowley said. 

“Could be,” Anathema countered. “We barely made it in without being skewered ourselves." 

"We'll send an adult with them," Crowley said.

"Can we actually spare anyone, given that we have no idea what we're heading into? Nine pairs of eyes—”

“Ten!” Wensleydale said proudly, tapping his glasses.

“—okay,  _ ten _ pairs of eyes are better than five, or worse four.”

Crowley groaned in consternation. “Alright, _fine_. But everyone had better listen to instructions, and if anyone dies, it’s their own fault.”

“Aye, but...dyin’s not really on the table, right?” Shadwell asked.

Grumbling to himself, Crowley gestured at the new recruits to lead the bloody way to the bloody howling tunnel.

Ten minutes and two tunnel intersections later, the boys stopped in front of another tunnel mouth that looked like…well, any other tunnel.

“This is it?” Adam asked. “Looks the same as all the others to me.”

“Give it a minute.”

They waited several long seconds in silence but heard nothing. Crowley was just about to call them out on their tall tale when the howling started.

It wasn’t howling exactly. More of an eerie moaning sound. Like a cat made of bagpipes dying a horrible death. It was discordant and otherworldly and it made every hair on Crowley’s neck stand up.

“Sweet mother of god,” Azira whispered, crossing himself. Then he started into the cave. Crowley hustled to catch up, and the others followed suit until they were all clumped together. Cearly, no one wanted to be apart from the group while the hair-raising sound echoed around them.

Crowley’s torch flickered wildly. It had already lasted far longer than it had any right to, and the second he thought that, it guttered out completely, leaving them in darkness.

“Well, perfect,” Crowley said into the emptiness as he dropped the now useless chair leg.

The moaning returned, louder and even more discordant than before, and Crowley fumbled in the darkness until he found Azira’s forearm. He latched on tight and instructed everyone else to do the same, until they had all formed a linked chain. He wanted everyone exactly where he could grab them and drag them to safety if he needed to.

Suddenly, one of them let out a high-pitched scream. A crashing sound cut off the scream, followed by an expletive from Anathema, who produced her lighter and revealed a shaking Pepper, holding her seemingly uninjured right arm. She was staring down at the floor where a pile of bones held loosely together in a faded shirt and pants glared unseeingly back up at her.

Brian leaned closer in, fingering a shirt sleeve. “It’s Jabari. Has to be.”

“ _ Was _ Jabari,” Wensleydale muttered darkly.

"It can't be Jabari, dears. He'd not have decomposed so completely that quickly."

"So another bloke died in here as well?" Brian said, looking more trepidatious by the second.

Anathema cursed again, shaking her hand and the lighter flame went out, leaving a darkness even more profound than before.

“Angel, we need to go back,” Crowley said again, hoping against hope the bloody man would listen this time.

“I think you’re right,” Azira said in a small voice. “You should go back.”

Crowley caught the pronoun change with all five alarms going off in his head at once.

“ _ We _ , angel,  _ we  _ should go back.”

“I have to continue. It’s my fault Lucifer and his ilk are even looking for the scroll. But none of you need risk yourselves.”

“Don’t be an idiot. You’re not going on by yourself.”

A note of steel entered Azira’s tone. “I quite insist. It is not safe for you to go forward, and yet I must. This is the best next move, given all the variables.”

“I’m not letting you go alone.”

“Who’s better at chess between the two of us, Crowley? You or me?”

Crowley snorted in irritation. “Chess has nothing to do with it. And even if it did, you’re looking at it wrong. It takes all the pieces to win a game.”

“We have no idea what lies ahead.”

“Which just proves my point. We haven’t engaged the opponent, so we haven’t even started playing yet. You can’t sacrifice a piece before the game even begins.”

Azira fell silent. Crowley wished he could see the man’s face to have some clue of the thoughts plunking around in that brain. He tightened his hold on Azira’s arm to make sure he couldn’t slip away from him.

“Alright, Crowley,” Azira said, a smile and a measure of relief in his voice. “You win this round. We go together.”

So they did. Excruciatingly slowly, as Crowley led the way, testing every footstep and feeling along the floor. There were no traps, though, as they inched along the dark and moaning tunnel. It appeared that whoever had carved this underground warren had indeed not intended to impede anyone’s access to whatever their destination might be.

Finally, after an agonizing hour at least—time had lost all definition as they hunched and scuttled their way to their goal—the tunnel widened again into a circular chamber with an impressively high ceiling. But this time, the room was not empty.

On a massive stone throne, a giant statue with a bull's head sat erect and proud, staring balefully into the chamber beyond. It was easily as tall as a house, with pillars for legs and boulders carved into fingers for fists.

“Montu,” Azira breathed, staring in awe, eyes fixed on the statue in the dim light. “The god of War.”

He took a few stumbling steps forward before Crowley yanked him back. “Wait! Look.”

He gestured to a ring of nine swords, tips sunk into the stone floor in a semi-circle around the statue, which Azira clearly hadn’t been paying any attention to.

“Nine by nine,” Azira muttered, changing trajectory to the nearest sword, which Crowley allowed. He had a bad feeling about crossing the sword line, but as long as the angel stayed on the tunnel side of the ring of swords, he’d let him wander.

Crowley thought to wonder, then, how it was they could suddenly see without a torch. The room was dimly lit to be sure, but it was still lit. He scanned the ceiling and found small rifts at intervals along the ceiling, which seemed to be emanating a hazy light. And after a moment, he worked out that those vents were where the sound was coming from as well. In fact, now that they were in the room, the moaning sounded more like several small off-key gongs being struck. Rocks and dust dribbled through the vents as if to prove his supposition.

“Remarkable,” he said, sounding much more like Azira than himself.

“Ah! Another inscription!” Azira said excitedly, sweeping his hand over the floor to rid it of dust. Crowley and the others gathered closer for a look. 

“Greek?” Anathema said. “Why Greek when the statue is Egyptian?”

“Perhaps the statue predates the writing,” Azira said. “Greeks and Romans often conscripted conquered holy sites for their own religions. Perhaps that happened here. And let’s not forget that Alexandria was renamed by Alexander the Great himself, who was King of Macedonia.”

“Ach, enough of the lecture. What does it  _ say _ , laddie?” Shadwell echoed Crowley’s thoughts precisely, which was a bit alarming, but Crowley would ignore it if it got his question answered.

“It says,  _ Obeisance to the Mad God. Embrace War to Win the Day. _ There are nine swords…” he trailed off, looking up at Crowley.

“And nine of us…” Crowley finished the thought. And before Crowley could stop him, Azira reached for the hilt of the center sword and drew it from the stone.

“Azira! It's not bloody Excalibur you can't just… What are you  _ doing _ ?”

Azira smirked at him. “So far, no curses. Care to give it a try yourself?”

Crowley sighed heavily and took the sword positioned to the right of Azira’s. One by one, each of the troop drew a sword, the last one being Pepper on the far edge of the room, closest to the left side of the statue. But as she pulled it from the stone, a great groaning and creaking, much greater in decibels than the earlier moaning, buffeted them from all directions. 

“What on earth?” Azira said, his hands clapped over his ears, as the sword he was holding stuck up straight above his head like a giant, metal feather.

“This is exactly why we shouldn’t be touching strange weaponry in underground religious crypts!” Crowley yelled back over the din.

But he readied his sword despite his grousing, because he had a really, really bad feeling about what the deafening sound portended. And of course, he was right. No sooner had he entertained the thought, than the statue itself, twenty feet tall at least, burst its moorings and stood up from its throne, dust and rock spraying like buckshot into the group.

Crowley hissed, leaping between the statue and Azira, sword at the ready. But the statue took a step, its fused-together legs splitting at the seam, and pulled its own swords, one for each hand, from either side of its chair. It let out an ear-splitting roar as it advanced another step, gaining momentum and equilibrium as it moved.

“Everyone back to the tunnel!” Crowley yelled, but too late. A heavy rock door slid from the ceiling to the floor, blocking the only escape route.

“Look out!” one of the kids shouted, taking Crowley’s attention from the cut-off tunnel behind them and the impossible threat in front of them. “They’re all around us!”

Following the direction of Brian’s arm up to the shadowy joint between the walls and the ceiling, Crowley could just make out the shape of falcons, hundreds of stone falcons leaping off a hidden ledge and diving toward them.

“How—?” Anathema said, lifting her saber just as the first falcon reached her. She managed to deflect it, using her sword more like a cricket bat than a weapon. “This isn’t possible!”

“And yet!” Crowley shouted back, grabbing Azira and sandwiching him between Crowley’s back and the nearest wall.

“Crowley, unhand me at once! I am more than capable of defending myself! And others!”

“‘Fraid boxing’s not going to do much good—” Crowley paused to slice at a falcon that dove too close. “—against stone, angel!”

“Oh, for…” Azira shoved him off and side-stepped out from behind him. “I’ll have you know—” He lunged forward in some kind of complicated parry and riposte, making quick work of three falcons simultaneously. “I was champion of my fencing club all through secondary school.”

Meanwhile, the statue continued forward, swinging its sword awkwardly at Newt and Shadwell, who scrambled out of the way in the nick of time. Shadwell had dropped his sword in favor of his blunderbuss. He fired, adding to the cacophony. The shot embedded itself in the statue’s shoulder, pushing it backward with the force of impact, if only slightly. 

“Keep going!” Anathema shouted from her position near the children. “If it can be damaged, it can be stopped!”

Then with a truly blood-curdling war cry, Adam shot forward, ignoring falcons and flailing with his sword as he attacked the monster-god’s feet. It stepped forward, heedless of Adam’s efforts, and shoved Adam five feet through the air. He landed in a tangled heap near Crowley and Azira. Crowley grabbed the boy by the back of his shirt and hoisted him up to standing.

“You hurt?” Crowley asked, as he hacked another falcon from the sky.

“Nah,” Adam said, a terrifying smile on his face. “This is brilliant!”

“Try not to die!” Crowley yelled after the boy as he scampered back into the fray, sword swinging recklessly above his head.

Azira’s sword suddenly sliced through the air just in front of Crowley’s nose, causing him to go momentarily cross eyed.

“On your right, dear!” he said, taking out a falcon Crowley hadn’t seen bearing down on him from the side.

“Thanks?”

“Don’t mention it!” 

Then he whirled away to take out another four falcons in a corkscrew move that Crowley had never seen before in his life. What idiots honestly thought Azira wouldn’t be an immense asset on the battlefield? Crowley could kiss every bloody one of them in gratitude for their short-sightedness, keeping Azira safe at home and away from the madness of war.

The madness of war.

“Wait. Angel, what did the inscription say?”

“Obeisance to the Mad God. Embrace War to Win the Day.”

“What if we don’t want to win the day?” Crowley said, breathless as he fought off another falcon. “What if we want to win the war?”

“You don’t win a war,” Azira said, thinking. “Not with the amount of suffering incurred on both sides. At some point, you simply...lay down arms.”

Pepper, covered head to toe in cave dust, stamped her foot in outrage, screeching like a banshee, as she rushed the statue. Though just before reaching it, she sunk the tip of her sword back into its holder in the floor.

“I believe in peace, bitch,” she said. Then she stumbled backwards as the statue’s right leg crumbled, crippling it. It used one of its swords to support its weight in lieu of the missing leg and hobbled forward, regardless.

“That’s it!” Azira cried. “Everyone, replace your swords at once!”

It took several agonizing minutes for everyone to free themselves from the attacking falcons to dodge the statue and replace their swords. But as each did so, another part of the statue crumbled to dust while they watched—a leg, a sword, an arm, the abdomen, the chest, and lastly, as Azira replaced the final sword, the head.

Whatever infernal mechanism had begun the attack ground to a halt with a metallic scream and hiss. The remaining falcons dropped from the sky.

“Hang on, what’s this?” Azira said as he bent over the pile of rubble that had once been a giant, murderous statue. 

So of course, that was the moment that the ceiling started caving in. 

The first slabs of stone hit the floor as Crowley said, “Time to go, angel.” Then he grabbed Azira’s arm and hauled him back up to standing, propelling him forward at the same time.

“Where do we go?” Newt called out, as he dodged a large chunk of falling rock.

“Up!” Crowley shouted, pointing at the ledge above the throne where the falcons had been sitting. He hauled Azira up onto the block of throne after him, then shuffled around him to hoist him up into the small space.

“Crowley, we don’t know if this even goes anywhere!”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Crowley said, as he tried desperately not to think about where his hands were in relation to Azira’s arse. “Now stop arguing, and at least look!”

Azira did as he was told for once, scrabbling onto the ledge and disappearing into the darkness.

“Angel?” Crowley called, starting to panic that his hunch had been wrong and Azira was being eaten by whatever other ancient monsters lay in the dark.

But after a few more heart-stopping moments, Azira’s head, dusty hat and all, poked out over the edge again. 

“You were right, Crowley! There’s a path that goes up, and I smell fresh air. Hurry, everyone!”

Grinning like a fool as the roof continued caving in around them, Crowley tossed each of the children up to Azira, then more carefully boosted Anathema. It took both Crowley and Newt to lift Shadwell’s near deadweight—the man would  _ not _ let go of the blessed gun—up to where Azira and Anathema could pull him through. Then Newt stepped on Crowley’s shoulders to make his own escape.

“Crowley!” Azira said, worry clear in his eyes, even from that distance and with the air full of hazy dust. “Jump, and I’ll catch you!”

“I won’t make it, angel. There has to be another way.”

“You will! You have to try. There’s no time!”

As if his words willed it into being, the room began to shake. An avalanche of rock bore down on Crowley as the ceiling finally caved in completely.

At the last second, Crowley leapt as high as he could, using an imperfection in the backrest of the throne as a toehold for extra leverage, propelling him up towards Azira’s reaching hand. 

For one glorious second, he thought he’d make it. His fingertips grazed Azira’s, contact that left him delirious with triumph. Until his fingers slipped away again, and he began to fall, slipping down the sheer wall. The memory of Azira scoffing at him for abandoning Hastur’s whip surfaced suddenly in a wave of hysteria. The bastard had been right after all. It  _ would _ have come in handy.

But Crowley had only one split second to contemplate his doom before Azira lunged forward like a striking snake, seizing Crowley by the wrist and pulling hard.

Crowley cursed as his arm nearly pulled out of its socket. But the Satan blessed, beautiful man had done it. He’d saved Crowley the way an angel would, by lifting him up from certain death.

When Crowley was safe on the ledge, Azira crushed him to his chest with a barely audible sob. Crowley could scarce breathe, and his arm was on fire, but it was worth it to be held so close to his angel.

“We have to hurry,” Anathema whispered in the near pitch black. “We have no idea how long this tunnel will last.”

Crowley felt more than saw Azira nod. Then he released Crowley and turned away, towards what Crowley hoped was the exit.

“Hands!” Crowley called out in the darkness, and the others obeyed, linking hands as near as Crowley could tell. “Roll call!”

“Brian!”

“Wensleydale!”

“Shadwell!”

“Newt!”

“Adam!” “Pepper!” the two said simultaneously.

“Anathema,” book-girl said, sounding beyond weary.

“Dr. Fell,” Azira said, sliding his hand into Crowley’s. “Let’s go, dear.”

Crowley snorted and nodded, though no one could see it in the darkness. “Let’s go.”

In considerably less time than it had taken them to get down into the bowels of the earth, they finally emerged back in the real world through the same door they’d entered in the basement of the restaurant.

As they all tumbled out, several of their number fell to their knees gasping, while others leaned hard against shelves, trying to collect their wits as well as their breath.

“We did it,” Azira said, his face shining with joy. “We actually did it!”

“What? Survived?” Crowley asked, much less impressed overall.

“No! I mean, yes, that is the most important part. But what I meant was, we found it! The next clue!”

“What?” Crowley said, pushing himself back up to standing as Azira pulled something from a pocket inside his waistcoat.

Crowley bent forward for a better look as the others gathered round as well.

It was an amulet of some kind, set with precious gems of turquoise and garnet and emerald. It was beautiful but there were no words or inscriptions. Only a scarab beetle and a woman pouring from a jar, surrounded by a circle of interspersed diamonds and jet. 

“That was inside the statue?”

Azira nodded emphatically.

“What does it mean?”

“No idea, dear boy, but we’ll figure it out.”

And though the idea of facing another rampaging stone statue was the absolute last thing he wanted to do, Crowley couldn’t help but catch the wave of Azira’s enthusiasm. 

They’d done it. They’d actually fucking done it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely the Indiana Jones-ish chapter, with all kinds of liberties taken with history, physics, timeline, etc., all sacrificed on the altar of MOAR ACTION, lol. Though I did do quite a bit of reading on Alexander the Great for this chapter, and I have to say, the man led an interesting life. Anyhoo, action of a different variety upcoming in the next chapter. ;-) Stay tuned!


	15. Mistakes and Miracles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azira and Crowley come to a new arrangement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's where we'll be earning our E rating, folks. :-) If that's not your thing, then you can skip probably, ooo, I'd say 90% or so of this chapter. Start at the beginning and stop when they reach the loft. Or you can skip this chapter entirely, as there's literally no plot to speak of. The next chapter will actually contain some plot with likely some smut mixed in, so I'll add skip links should you want them.
> 
> As always, I owe heaps to my lovely beta [Z A Dusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/works) for their tremendous attention to detail, their prose-savvy suggestions, and their constant invaluable support. #superbetaFTW! <3333

Every nerve in Azira’s body buzzed with adrenaline as the nine of them, covered in dust and sweat, stumbled back up the stairs to the restaurant. If the patrons had heard anything untoward in the caverns beneath where they sat enjoying their meals, they showed no sign of it. They did cast disparaging looks at the bedraggled group that emerged from the kitchen, but Azira suspected that had more to do with concern over them contaminating the food with their grime than the threat of a dreadful weapon coming to light.

When they exited the restaurant, it was as if the lid on a pot of boiling water had flown off. Nearly every member of the group began jabbering all at once. 

“Can you believe—?”

“And then it just started—!”

“That falcon almost pecked your blimming—!”

“—bloody lost it when—”

“—wicked!”

“Can we go again?”

Crowley called them all to attention with a piercing whistle. “Oi! Settle down, you lot. They can probably hear you all the way over at the Papyrus Club, with all your carrying on.”

Yet despite his admonishments, his expression held an equal measure of excitement as the others. His hat tilted back on his head, his glasses off, allowing a rare public exhibition of his eyes as he cleaned the lenses with the tail of his shirt. 

Azira couldn’t help but beam at the man. He’d never felt closer to anyone than he did in that moment. They’d all survived, thanks in large part to the adventurer-guide. If he hadn’t thought to question winning the war, Azira and Pepper wouldn’t have worked out the solution. Certainly not in time to prevent them all from being stoned to death. Azira shivered as the thought briefly overshadowed his feelings of triumph.

“Alright, angel?” Crowley asked, setting his glasses back in place.

“Of course, dear,” Azira said, good spirits returning under Crowley’s attention.

He desperately wanted to slip his hand into Crowley’s again as he had in the tunnels. It had been so easy then, with the convenient excuse of preventing separation. Now he’d have to own the gesture for what it was, which of course he dare not, especially in view of so many witnesses. But he nearly caved and clasped Crowley’s hand anyway, the compulsion to do so was that strong.

“What now?” Newt asked, breaking through the tension sparking between them. “The next trial?”

“Oh, good lord, no,” Azira said, startled. “Apart from the fact that we don’t yet know where to look, we need to rest and recover. We’ll meet again tomorrow morning. For now, let’s head back to Tracy’s and get cleaned up.”

“I’m starving,” Brian pronounced around a yawn. The other children echoed the sentiment. 

“There’s leftovers in the kitchen,” Pepper said. “Last one back’s a rotten egg!”

She made a beeline for Newt’s blue car as Adam squawked in protest at her unfair head start and dashed over towards the Bentley across the street.

“We’ll take the new recruits,” Crowley said, hustling Azira, Brian, and Wensleydale in Adam’s wake.

When they finally reached the brothel, the children and Newt headed for the kitchens while Anathema, Shadwell, Crowley, and Azira headed up the long flights of stairs to their respective rooms.

Azira should have been tired. Scratch that, he should have been _exhausted_. But he wasn’t. He had so much energy despite his injuries that he could not stand still. 

When he stopped to bid goodnight to Shadwell and Anathema, he fell, by habit, into rattling off a list of references he wanted Anathema to procure the following day that might help them place the medallion he’d found in the statue. 

“…the Ayrton, the Griffith, and the Habachi to start with, and then perhaps the—”

“C’mon, angel,” Crowley said, his tone one of fond exasperation, as he grasped Azira’s wrist and pulled him in the direction of the loft staircase.

Azira thrilled at the touch but tried hard not to show it as he said a hasty, “Sleep well, dear!” Then he allowed himself to be led through the door and up the stairs to the loft’s sitting area. 

Crowley dropped Azira’s wrist then and continued into the kitchen where he got out two glass tumblers and a bottle of scotch. Azira ducked his head, both pleased and bashful that Crowley wanted to continue their interaction, alone. 

What could he say after everything that happened in the tunnels? Crowley had been magnificent. No, _together_ they were magnificent. A team. Somehow, in the few weeks since he’d first seen Crowley’s name printed on an unassuming card, he and Crowley had become something unique. And there he was now, pouring Azira a drink, as if they were partners…or…maybe… 

No. No, he couldn’t think like that. Crowley was a comrade, a colleague of sorts, maybe a friend. But that was all. To hope for more was foolhardy. 

And yet, the man was looking at Azira as if he were proud of him or perhaps even admired him. It was all too much. Azira felt lightheaded, as if he might swoon. If he didn’t move, do something, soon…he didn’t even know what, really, just that something needed to happen or he would burst.

And then at precisely the wrong moment, Crowley bridged the gap between them to hand Azira his drink. Only Azira’s brain had completely shut down at Crowley’s immediate proximity, the dusty, smoky scent swamping Azira’s senses, and before Azira knew what he was about, he had transferred the glass from hand to table, leaned in, and kissed Crowley full on his beautiful, smirking lips.

The relief that filled Azira could not be quantified. As if he’d been waiting his entire life to end up here, right here, sharing breath, sharing his heart, with this man. As if he’d finally, _finally_ found where he belonged. And all he could think was how strange it was that it had taken him so long to find it when it had been waiting for him here this whole time.

But then Crowley tensed, and reality crashed back down around Azira. He pulled back immediately, bumping hard into the table edge behind him, stammering apology after apology as quickly as his panicked brain could supply them.

“…so incredibly sorry. I can’t imagine what came over me. It will never happen again, I—”

“Azira,” Crowley said, catching Azira’s hand in his. “I…er…ngk…”

Azira waited apprehensively through a series of half-started sentences before the man finally yanked off his glasses, said, “Sod it,” and pulled Azira to his chest, wrapping his arms around him and capturing his mouth in a desperate, devouring kiss. 

Azira moaned into Crowley’s lips, needing less than a second to take complete leave of his senses again, and press even closer, threading his fingers into Crowley’s hair and dislodging his hat entirely.

Meanwhile, Crowley’s hands were everywhere, sliding down Azira’s sides, circling his lower back, cupping his hips, and finally pressing against his chest to break the kiss.

“Crowley,” Azira keened as soon as he had oxygen enough to do so. “Crowley, what are…what are you…?” He couldn’t even formulate the question, his thoughts were so scattered.

“I’ve never…with a man…rarely with women…I…”

Azira pulled back further, forcing his brain to cooperate. “I-I don’t want to pressure you.” He attempted to extricate himself from Crowley’s hold, but to no avail. Every time he pried a hand free, Crowley would snatch it back. “Crowley, please. I—”

“No, stop, listen,” Crowley said quickly, a pleading note in his voice that Azira had never heard before. “I only meant I’ll need guidance. Not that I don’t want you. I do. I do want you. Extremely. Have for a while.”

It was the “a while” that caught Azira. “What do you mean ‘a while’? How long?”

“Long enough that I slipped off to ask some friends for advice the other day. I’m serious, angel. I don’t know how to prove it to you, but I want this.”

But Azira could feel the proof as Crowley closed the distance once more and pressed his unmistakable erection into Azira’s hip. Azira gasped, flayed open to his core. Crowley knew now. He knew Azira’s darkest secret, and he not only didn’t mind, he felt the same about Azira.

Azira crushed his mouth against Crowley’s, moaning as Crowley pressed him into the wall opposite the table, yanking off Azria’s bow tie and tossing it to the floorboards. Azira tilted his head to give Crowley unfettered access to his throat. 

“I couldn’t—” Azira gasped again as Crowley palmed the front of his trousers, caressing his rapidly hardening cock. “I thought you’d be repulsed…I couldn’t risk honesty, or—” He paused to use God’s name in vain several times as Crowley rucked up his waistcoat, shirt, and undershirt just enough to touch skin. “I wanted to…I wanted you…”

“I know,” Crowley said, pulling away from where he’d left bruises to purple along Azira’s collarbone to reply. “I know that now. So much makes sense. You make everything make sense. Everything.”

“I—” Azira said, biting off the thought as Crowley slid his hand inside Azira’s trousers and along the part of Azira’s length that he could reach without undoing his trouser fastenings. “Oh, Crowley, oh—! Please, I need…”

“What do you need, angel? Whatever it is, I’ll give it to you. Everything you ask for and more.”

“I need you…” Azira trailed off, still afraid to say the words out loud. 

“I want you to say it. I want to hear those words in your gorgeous mouth, taste them on your tongue.”

“I…” Azira shook his head to clear it. “I’ve had to hide it for so long…”

Crowley gentled his touch, nuzzling Azira’s ear as he said, “You don’t ever have to hide from me.”

Azira trembled, honestly trembled, at the words. He’d never expected Crowley to return his attraction, but beyond that, he’d _certainly_ never expected him to return his feelings.

“Crowley, I…” Azira brushed his hand wonderingly around the back of Crowley’s neck. “I want you to fuck me. I want you to thrust your cock so far and so hard and so repeatedly into me that I feel it for days afterward.”

Crowley tightened his grip slightly on Azira’s shaft and it nearly sent Azira into a comatose state.

“Fuck…” Crowley whispered on a ragged breath. “Oh, fuck, angel, I want that, too. I want to do things to you that I don’t even know the words for yet.”

“Then do it. Do all of them—”

Crowley renewed his attack on Azira’s clothes, on his mouth, on his body. Azira helped as best he could, ripping at Crowley’s buttons and fastenings and braces and everything else, wanting more, wanting all of him, wanting it immediately.

Crowley pulled Azira into the nearest bedroom, Crowley’s bedroom as it turned out, reversing their positions in the space between door and bed until Azira’s back was to the four-poster.

“Satan, how many layers of clothes does one person need?” Crowley groused, scowling at Azira’s laces as he tugged at them, knotting them hopelessly.

“Do you see me harassing you about all the knives you have hidden on your person?” Azira teased back as he tossed a stiletto he’d pulled from Crowley’s boot onto the nightstand with a clatter.

“We were heading into danger. _You_ were heading into danger. I don’t take that kind of thing lightly,” Crowley growled at him before peeling off Azira’s last shoe and pressing him onto the bed, capturing his mouth in another scorching kiss.

Azira’s entire body rang like a struck tuning fork, pleasantly separating his thoughts into disconnected fragments. He’d never felt so good, so _safe_ in his entire life. He trusted Crowley.

“Do you like…?” Crowley asked and followed it up with a tongue swipe over Azira’s nipple. 

Azira gasped a breathy, “yes!” arching into the sensation. Crowley hummed appreciatively and proceeded to lathe and suck at first one of Azira’s nipples and then the other for long enough to build the fire in Azira’s loins to an inferno.

“Crowley! _Please_ touch me…” Azira begged, his body squirming with need and anticipation.

“I am touching you,” Crowley said, nipping Azira’s collarbone, then soothing it with a warm flick of his tongue.

Azira made a frustrated sound as he pushed Crowley lower. 

“I want to hear you say it, angel. Tell me what you want.”

Azira panted. “I want your hands on my cock. Now, if you please.”

Crowley chuckled. “So polite. How could I refuse such an elegant request?”

“Crowley!” Azira whined, frustrated.

Azira watched as Crowley slid a bit lower down Azira’s body and obeyed him, curling his fingers around Azira’s thick shaft. Azira nearly came off the bed at the mere sight of it, to say nothing of the sensations rippling from his cock outward. 

“Nnnggghhh,” Azira said, gripping fistfuls of blanket. 

“Fuck, Azira, you have no idea what it does to me, seeing you like this, so open, so beautiful, and falling apart. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

The _I’ve never seen_ finally penetrated Azira’s lust-addled brain enough for him to take stock of what they were doing, of what they were about to do, of what he’d pretty much begged Crowley to do, and exactly _why_ that was probably a bad idea. At least for tonight.

“Crowley,” Azira said, trembling violently as his body argued strenuously with him over what he was about to say. Tears leaked from his eyes as he squeezed them shut. “Okay, stop, stop. We can’t. We have to stop.”

“What? Why?” Crowley asked, his hand migrating to Azira’s hip.

“I just… I’m afraid I’ll go too fast for you.”

Crowley heaved a formidable sigh. “Angel, I swear to Sa…to Someone, that that is categorically impossible.”

Then he captured Azira’s mouth again in another bruising kiss, his hand drifting back towards Azira’s cock.

Azira broke away again, grasping Crowley’s hand before it could do more damage to Azira’s control than it already had.

“Nevertheless, we should slow down.”

“What in Heaven for?”

“I don’t want you to wake up tomorrow feeling as if you’d make a mistake.”

Crowley stared at him, his beautiful eyes wide with surprise. “You’re not a mistake, angel, I promise you that.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I absolutely can.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand, Azira.”

Azira covered his eyes with a hand. How mortifying. To be naked in front of the man he'd fallen for and have to confess how unworthy he was.

“All my life, in every aspect of my life, save one, I have been a mistake. I can’t risk being yours.”

“You were _never_ … Bless it all to Heaven. The only reason you believe that is because you hadn’t met me until now.”

Azira frowned at him. “I wouldn’t have accepted your pity at any time, no matter how kindly meant.”

“Look, I’m an arse, okay? I always make the worst of a bad situation, and I don’t know half of what I’m doing most of the time. But I do know a bloody miracle when I see one. And I’m looking straight at one right now.”

With a small, helpless noise, Azira surged up and captured Crowley’s mouth in kiss, his hands framing Crowley’s face, holding him close. “I can’t…” he mumbled between presses of lip, grazes of teeth and tongue. “You can’t say such things…”

This time, Crowley’s hand found its goal unimpeded, stroking Azira’s shaft into an aching hardness. Azira heard himself making the most obscene noises, which he had not the slightest power nor provocation to stop. His hips thrust upwards of their own accord and he felt the tip of Crowley’s shaft brush his stomach. He shook with want.

Crowley dipped down then, testing his tongue on the weeping head of Azira’s cock, which immediately brought Azira back to the subject in question. They were rushing. They needed to stop. But _why_ did they need to stop again? Everything felt so sublime. Surely stopping was the last thing they should be doing. 

Crowley returned to plunder Azira’s mouth, tasting already of consequences Azira wasn’t ready to face. When Crowley broke the kiss a minute later, he said,

“What next? What can I do to you next? I want to see you come completely undone.”

Azira wanted to answer with a lengthy and annotated list, but his doubt was returning. He tried to bury it in another carnal kiss, but it would not succumb. Crowley took the kiss to mean continuance, and nearly leveled Azira by stroking a bold thumb into Azira’s cleft.

“Okay, okay, wait,” Azira said, pulling Crowley close, stopping them again. 

“Do you not want this?” Crowley asked, sounding uncertain.

“Oh, no, no, no, dear boy,” Azira assured him, gathering him closer still. “I absolutely, absolutely do. But I cannot in good conscience rush you—rush _us_ —into something we cannot undo. If it weren’t your first time, this would be a different conversa—”

“Bollocks.”

“Dear…”

“I’m no virgin. I just haven’t…with a man. Doesn’t mean I’m not sure.”

“I know. I know. But look—for my own peace of mind—I propose a compromise.”

“You’re killing me, Azira.”

“I promise, it will be worth it. Do you trust me?”

Crowley flinched as if stung but nodded. “Yeah, ‘course.”

“Then trust me to take care of you.”

“ _I_ take care of _you_. It’s in the job description, remember?”

“We take care of each other. And right now, it’s my turn.”

Crowley shook his head but his expression said surrender. “Alright. I still think you’re being overcareful, but… What kind of compromise?”

“One that stops us rushing into things, but still allows us a full measure of satisfaction in the meantime.”

“And then?”

Azira paused before answering to trace a finger reverently down the side of Crowley’s beautiful face.

“And then if you wake up tomorrow in the cool, calculating light of day and decide this isn’t what you bargained for, well, then…we haven’t taken it too far.”

Crowley took possession of Azira’s hand, kissing the fingers that had just caressed his face, his eyes never leaving Azira’s in the dim light. “That won’t happen. But if slowing down a bit makes you feel better, then I’m all for it.”

He seemed so sincere, every molecule of him focused completely on Azira. It was overwhelming and intoxicating and Azira never wanted to live without it. 

But instead of renewing their activities, he twisted around underneath Crowley, dislodging him somewhat as he reached for the nightstand drawer.

“What are you doing?” Crowley asked, curious.

“I’m looking for something.” Azira rifled through the drawer, found the object he sought, and pulled it out, showing it to Crowley. “Lubricant.”

Crowley smiled in a way that lit him up from the inside out. “How did you know it would be there?”

“Well, this is a brothel, after all.”

Crowley chuckled again and plucked the tube of lubricant from Azira’s hand. Then he forcefully repositioned Azira underneath him and began steadily grinding against him, kissing Azira with building ferocity. 

Azira, for his part, was cresting too soon. He played with the idea of just letting it go, letting this be enough for this first time. But it had been so long, and there was no guarantee any of it would happen again after tonight. Selfishly, Azira wanted just one memory to keep with him forever should he never be allowed it again.

“Slick me, darling,” he whispered into Crowley’s ear as he thrust up to meet him. “Slick us both.”

Crowley’s breath hitched but he obeyed, breaking his rhythm to do as told, taking extra care to warm the gel in his hands and on his own shaft first before transferring the remainder to Azira’s cock.

“Perfect,” Azira breathed, eyes glazing over as the sensation of Crowley’s hand stroking his cock sent him into a whirl of fresh rapture. “You’re so perfect, darling.”

Crowley shuddered in his arms with what Azira hoped was pleasure.

“Now gather us both together in your hand,” Azira said, then gasped as Crowley shifted, supporting himself against the headboard with one hand while wrapping his fingers around their cocks with the other. “Yes, yes, oh, yes. _Crowley_ …” he panted as his hips jutted into Crowley’s hand. It was almost too much. Almost too much…the heat…the hardness…the pressure. His hips thrust up again, luxuriating in the slick slide of his length against Crowley's through the tight curl of Crowley's hand.

He withdrew and thrust again, and this time, Crowley looped a long finger around the head of Azira’s cock, pressing the sensitive area just beneath. Starbursts erupted behind Azira’s closed eyelids, and he babbled nonsensically, digging his fingers into Crowley’s strong shoulders. 

“You like that, angel? Doesss that feel good?” he asked, hissing in Azira’s ear. 

“Good lord, Crowley, yes!”

On the next thrust, Crowley repeated the maneuver, and Azira whimpered with the building wave in his belly. His world narrowed to a single point, a single purpose. He thrust again and the wave grew higher, more adamant, pushing at his instincts to drive deeper. So he shifted a bit for better leverage and thrust again, this time bottoming out in Crowley's palm, and as his gaze fluttered up to meet Crowley's beautiful tiger's eyes, the wave crashed into him with such force that it knocked the breath out of him completely.

He lost all awareness in that moment, as he tipped over the edge into the greatest ecstasy he’d ever experienced. A rush of sound filled his ears, his vision speckled, his body pulled taught as a bow, and he shouted in climax, his spend erupting from him and spilling all over Crowley’s hand and cock.

“Oh, my God,” Crowley choked. “My… Azira…” Then he came as well in great pulses as he thrust through his hand, his spend joining Azira’s where it dribbled from Crowley’s hands onto Azira’s stomach. 

Azira held him through it, whispering praise and adoration in Crowley’s ear and counting every tremble as a gift. Even if all he ever had was this…this one time…it would be enough. 

“Bloody Hell, angel,” Crowley said, stirring after several long minutes of clinging to each other through the aftermath. “I’ve never felt…anything like that before. Not even close.”

Azira smiled into Crowley’s hair, not wanting to let go, not yet. 

“Oof,” Crowley said again after another minute of calming breaths and soothing caresses. “We’re all sticky.”

Azira closed his eyes, hoping and regretting but letting his arms slide away all the same.

“That _is_ generally a side effect of mind-altering, body-shattering sex.”

“I’ll take it,” he said. “That is…” He turned his head up to look Azira in the eyes. “…if you liked it?”

Azira beamed every ounce of joy and love he could summon at Crowley, the external personification of his heart that he’d never asked for and yet would not now trade in for all the scrolls in all the kingdoms in every age that ever was.

“It was brilliant, Crowley. Absolutely… I… I’m out of words.”

“Wow. That good, huh?” he answered with a smug smile. “Turns out I’m a natural.”

Then he tapped the tip of Azira’s nose with his finger and got up and headed for the kitchenette. Azira closed his eyes, blissfully disbelieving that any of this was happening, until he felt a cool, damp cloth mopping up his chest. He smiled up at Crowley, then looked away again, feeling shy.

“You don’t have to do that, I could have—”

“I wanted to, angel,” Crowley said, tossing the towel onto the nightstand next to the jar of lubricant and settling in under the covers next to Azira. 

“Should I—?” Azira bit his lip, hating to ask but needing to. “Do you want me to leave?”

“I do _not_ want you to,” Crowley said, pulling Azira into his arms and pressing his lips to Azira’s hairline, his cheekbone, his jaw, and then finally his lips. 

This time, the kiss was slow and exploratory, comforting and sweet. And it lasted for ages, until Azira finally broke the connection and shifted to lay his head on Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley wound his limbs around Azira like a creeping vine, as if intentionally making it impossible for Azira to leave without his knowing. Azira’s heart twinged at the possessiveness of it, the implications of their change in relationship lasting longer than one night. Much as Azira might want to, he knew he couldn’t keep this for long, certainly not forever. But somehow, being here, in Egypt, made the impossible seem possible. And Crowley—adventurer, war hero, guardian, and guide—was worth it, was worth every moment of heartache afterwards, when the adventure was over and Azira had to return to a place that, strangely, felt less and less like home…

“What are you thinking about?” Crowley asked him.

Azira tucked his head just below Crowley’s chin, wanting to answer and not answer at the same time.

“You,” Azira said simply. 

“Oh, really? My stunning and unexpected prowess in bed, you mean?”

Crowley slid out from under Azira just enough to grab the extra blanket at their feet and pull it over the both of them. Then he settled in again, his shoulder under Azira’s cheek, his arms wrapped around Azira, his chin nestled in Azira’s hair. Azira would smell like Crowley for a week and be grateful for it.

“About your remarkable and enduring heart,” Azira said, tracing a pattern of loops and whorls over the organ in question. To which Crowley frowned mightily until Azira relented and said, “Oh, alright. And your stunning and unexpected prowess in bed.”

Crowley purred his approval. “That’s right, angel, and don’t you forget it.”

“I never could, my darling boy, _I_ promise _you_ that.”

“Good. Now go to sleep. I’ll keep watch until you wake up.”

“You should sleep, too,” Azira said, fighting back a yawn. Why was he so suggestible? Crowley shouldn’t have such an effect on him, even if they were…what were they? Lovers? But Azira fought the drooping of his eyelids in vain. He would have to wait for morning to parse it all out.

“I’m not tired at the moment,” Crowley said. “You’ve rattled me, angel. I’m awake for the duration, I’m afraid.”

“Well, that’s hardly fair,” Azira said, his words slurring to even his own ears. “I should stay up with you.”

“Not tonight, love,” Crowley said and nuzzled the top of Azira’s head. “There will be plenty of time.”

Azira snorted softly at that, and as quick as a candle guttering out was fast asleep.


	16. Love and Consequence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azira and Crowley suffer the consequences of their actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my beloved [Z A Dusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/works) for their incomparable beta work. I could NOT without them, I just could not.
> 
> CW for mentions of period-appropriate homophobia and reference to past violent acts, though absent of gory details.

Anathema Device liked to believe she was a no-nonsense sort of person. Not that she lacked a sense of humor, but rather that she didn’t put up with any bullshit. She was in a particularly no-nonsense mood at the moment. Just the idea that she had to deal with Shadwell to piece together the nature and whereabouts of the next trial was enough to give her heartburn. She was already donning her armor of cutting remarks as she pushed open the door to the loft.

It was still early, though. With any luck she’d have at least an hour before the others arrived to analyze her mother’s journal and cross-reference it with some of the texts she’d brought with her. Dr. Fell normally took his first tea by dawn, so he’d likely be up and reading by now. Might be nice to have a look at the amulet again, as well as a word with her mentor, who had been strangely hard to pin down lately. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a word with him without Crowley present.

Not that she didn’t like Crowley, on the whole. He seemed to have a sensible enough head on his shoulders. And he cared about Dr. Fell, that much was obvious. There was something off about him, though, that niggled at her sometimes. Something of the secret-keeping variety. Every once in a while, she caught him looking over his shoulder, as if expecting a threat to be lurking there. It worried her.

Nevertheless, the prospect of a peaceful morning with no nipple-counting challenges, was deeply appealing. Though she supposed she wouldn’t mind if Newt was already there. He was a bit bumbling, but he was growing on her. As no-nonsense as she believed herself to be, she found she didn’t mind a bit of nonsense when he was the source of it.

She reached the top stair of the loft’s private staircase and rounded the railing, passing the sitting area on her way to the dining table. As she neared the table, though, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that the door to Crowley’s bedroom was open. She looked up, thinking that must mean he was in the kitchen or elsewhere in the loft. But no. No, he definitely had not left. In fact, he was very clearly still asleep in the bed, mostly, if not completely, naked, his sheet barely covering one golden hip.

Then she noticed the man sleeping next to him.

_Oh, no. Oh, NO._

She closed her eyes, alas too late, as the sight of _Dr. Fell_ lying next to Crowley, neither of them clothed, was burned indelibly on the insides of her tender eyelids.

She backed slowly and carefully away as silently as she possibly could. She nearly tripped over a stuffed chair in the sitting area and swore internally as she waited with bated breath for sounds of either man moving.

_Get it together, Device._

When no sounds were forthcoming, she inched backwards towards the stairs and down again as fast as she dared.

She nearly collapsed in relief when she reached the hallway. Good grief, what a nightmare. Though not perhaps for Dr. Fell and Crowley. She’d long suspected Dr. Fell was _that way_ , and she’d seen how lonely he’d been these last few years. He deserved happiness if anyone did. But her coming upon them was a different story entirely. It was like catching her parents in the act. She didn’t give a fig if Dr. Fell preferred men or women, but she certainly had no interest in having first-hand knowledge of him in a sexual context no matter who his partner was. 

Still, they’d have to be more careful. She was perfectly accepting, but that didn't mean everybody was. She certinaly woulnd't put it past Shadwell to clap them both in irons for indecency, given his overall zealous nature. She opened the door to the loft stairs wide and made as loud a noise as she could on the landing, stomping several times and slamming the door behind her.

“Dr. Fell!” she called up the stairs. “Dr. Fell, are you up yet? I’d like to get started researching the amulet!”

She gave it a minute, and then she tromped heavily on the first stair.

“Dr. Fell, if you haven’t eaten, I can send down to the kitchen for some pasties!”

 _Stomp_.

“I’ve been craving those sweet potato ones from last Tuesday!”

_Stomp._

“Dr. Fell, I don’t suppose you have any tea made?!”

 _Stomp_.

“I could put a kettle on if you’ve gotten sidetracked in your reading!”

_Stomp._

In short order, she ran out of stairs, and she couldn’t be sure if Dr. Fell had made it from Crowley’s room to his own quite yet, so she swiveled to put her back to the dining area, pretending to study Shadwell’s jewelry box. Doing so afforded a clear path from Crowley’s bedroom door to Dr. Fell’s.

“You know, if you like, Dr. Fell, we could take a photograph of Shadwell’s tattoo, so he doesn’t always need to be present.”

“Oh, yes. That is probably a good idea, dear girl,” Dr. Fell said from behind her.

Anathema turned to see a slightly flushed, very off-kilter Dr. Fell. He was dressed, thank everything holy, but his attire was obviously mussed—either wrinkled or misbuttoned or not quite even. She thought about pointing it out, but decided against it. 

“Tea,” she said instead, with perhaps a bit too much brightness. “I’ll just…”

Then she passed him and went into the kitchen, pretending as hard as she could that she didn’t see the thumbs-up sign Crowley was making to Dr. Fell behind her back.

Ugh. Men.

* * *

Azira fidgeted mightily as he waited for tea. Anathema appeared not to have noticed anything amiss, but Azira knew her well enough to give her more credit for her powers of observation than that. At the very least, she must suspect he’d slept in his clothes. Which he had decidedly not, but he certainly wasn’t going to tell her that. He was fairly sure she already knew of his predilections, of course, but that didn’t mean she would approve of him acting on them.

Crowley had yet to emerge, no doubt taking his time to appear much more put together than Azira had. In fact, now that Azira was relatively awake and thinking more clearly, he realized neither himself nor Crowley had properly bathed after their battle with the statue. They had likely sweated off most of the dust during their tryst the previous evening, but that didn’t mean they both didn’t desperately need a bath. Upon which thought, his highly distractible brain supplied a mental image that he dare not indulge while in company. 

_Oh, good lord._

“Dear girl, if it’s alright with you, I might take a minute to freshen up in the bathroom. Won’t be a tick.”

“By all means, take your time, Dr. Fell,” she said with a teasing twinkle in her eye. Then she turned her attention back to the tea.

Before anything else disastrous could occur, Azira slipped back into his room for fresh clothes and a towel. Then he made a beeline for the bathroom. Once inside, he shoved the small towel cabinet in front of the door so Crowley couldn’t accidentally—or purposefully—enter without permission.

With a heavy sigh, he started the bath water, adjusting the taps as he liked them. Then he leaned against the sink while the tub filled, trying to stop himself from worrying. It was a hopeless affair, of course. Worry was Azira’s default state. And rarely had he the occasion to worry for such substantial cause. 

He was in love again. And despite the previous evening's activities, he couldn’t be sure how Crowley would react to the new experience. Some men of Aziraphale’s acquaintance in college had spoken of assignations that had seemed exceedingly mutual in the heat of the moment, but by morning, their sexual partners had grown fearful or, even worse, vicious, insisting that it didn’t mean anything, that they’d been coerced, that they would _hurt_ their partner if he breathed a word about it to anyone. 

Azira had never experienced such a thing directly, thank God. But he certainly might have if he’d had any sexual encounters beyond James. These types of morning-after reactions were unfortunately rather common. He didn’t think Crowley the type to care particularly what others thought or to not know his own mind, and so Azira could easily be worried for no reason. But because they had been interrupted by Anathema’s untimely entrance, Azira hadn’t had the chance to ask, to have the cold-light-of-day conversation. For all he knew, Crowley could be awash with regrets and wondering how to break the news to Azira.

He groaned softly, rubbing his eyes. Then he turned off the taps, added a few drops of sandalwood oil he’d found in the towel cupboard, and disrobed much more perfunctorily than he had the previous evening. The water was the perfect temperature as he slipped into the tub, and it absorbed all his aches and pains like a sponge as he settled against the porcelain with a sigh of relief.

It was as if a switch had flipped. Basking in the scented water loosened the knot of worry in his mind, and allowed the memories of last night to take center stage. Crowley growling in his ear, sucking red marks of claiming into his skin, touching him, taking him…

Azira gasped, his eyes popping open, as he experienced some unintended side effects of caving to such carnal thoughts. He quickly changed tack to ruminate on the amulet, the markings, the meaning of it, where it might be pointing to next. And _what_ it might be pointing to next. If their first trial was War, did that mean their next trials were similar? Perhaps Pestilence, or Famine, or…Death? He carried on in that vein for long enough to both divert his overly responsive body and to initiate his anxiety again.

He shook his head, focusing on cleaning himself. Neither worry nor arousal were optimal states to be starting the day. 

He soaped his skin, skating carefully across his various bumps and bruises, cuts and gashes, wincing gratefully as the water now stung him. It was a clean and righteous pain, reminding him of his responsibilities, of what he could—and could not—control. As he toweled himself dry and dressed in fresh clothes, he recounted facts in his mind, listed priorities, identified next steps, and absolutely did not think at all about Crowley. 

Thus congratulating himself, he removed the towel cabinet and opened the door to find Crowley leaning just outside it, waiting for him.

“Morning, angel,” he drawled, dark glasses and smirk both in place, as if nothing at all had happened the previous night.

“M-morning…er…Crowley,” he said, then stepped quickly aside to let the man pass.

Crowley smiled lazily and enigmatically at him as he sauntered into the bathroom, shutting the door with a click behind him.

Azira’s breath escaped with a whoosh, his heart pounding. So much for recounting facts and listing priorities. He might as well have not even bothered.

“Dr. Fell?” Anathema said pointedly from where she waited by the dining area table.

Only then did Azira realize he’d been staring at the bathroom door, and that they’d been joined by Newt, Shadwell, and the boys in his absence.

Flustered, Azira shuffled in the direction of his room to deposit his dirty clothes. 

“It appears I’m not quite as recovered from yesterday as I’d hoped,” he said upon his return. 

But that was a lie, wasn’t it? He’d honestly never felt more rested, more _well_ , than he did in this moment. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d remained in bed past dawn. Clearly, sleeping next to Crowley made him feel some measure of safety that he didn’t normally enjoy. He hadn’t even dreamt of anything, at least not that he remembered.

“Dr. Fell!” Anathema shouted.

“Sorry, what?” he said, nonplussed.

“I’ve said your name three times now. Are you okay?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Tickety-boo, my dear. I do apologize. What were you saying?”

“I was saying that I’d like to go get my camera from my room so I can take a picture of Shadwell’s tattoo.”

“Yes, that would be lovely. Thank you.”

Adam popped up at that moment from the dining table, half a pasty in his hand. He grabbed another off a plate and brought it to Azira.

“Pepper sent ‘em up while you were bathing,” he said. 

“Oh,” Azira said, assessing the state of his stomach and finding it surprisingly quiet. “Thank you, dear boy, but it appears I’m not hungry.”

“Not hungry?” Newt said, as everyone turned to stare at Azira. “You’re always at least peckish.”

“I am not _always_ peckish,” Azira said. But the stares of the others around him—even Brian and Wensleydale, whom he’d only just met—seemed to imply otherwise. “Well.”

Crowley emerged from the bathroom shirtless a few minutes later, toweling his hair off as he walked towards his own bedroom, looking like the absolute Greek god he was. All of a sudden, Azira felt an insatiable craving in every fiber of his being. And though that craving wasn’t at all for pasties, he took the one Adam had offered.

“On second thought,” Azira said, his voice husky as he forced his gaze away from Crowley. “I could eat.”

Crowley tossed his damp towel onto his bed, and the image of him performing a similar maneuver with a much smaller towel the night before played on a loop in Azira’s mind. 

“I’ll take one of those,” Crowley said as he circled round Azira and reached past him to pluck a pasty from the plate on the table. "I'm ravenous."

“Mmrphle,” Azira said intelligently.

“Bottoms up,” Crowley said, playfully toasting Azira’s pasty with his own before returning to his room to finish dressing.

Anathema returned then with her camera and harangued Shadwell into undressing enough that she could take a few pictures.

“Och, an’ you’ll see I’ve only two nipples, because _I’m_ no a witch.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Don’t be thinking ye can pull the wool over my eyes, lass, by invoking the lord’s name. It’s the sacred name of the divine ye witches canna say.”

“Just hold still, you great lummox.”

“Excuse me, Dr. Fell, I just need to—” Newt said, startling Azira into dropping his pasty on the floor. “Oo, sorry about that. I was just going to fetch that book for Ana.”

“What? Ana?”

“I mean, Anathema.”

“You mean, Ms. Device?”

“Well, after last night, I figured…”

“Last night? What happened last night?” Azira said, his heart pounding like a klaxon in his ears.

“We destroyed an ancient statue in a giant chamber underneath a temple,” Newt said, his eyebrows nearly up to his hairline. “Are you alright, Dr. Fell?”

“Perfectly,” he said too loudly, then cleared his throat, and tried to lean nonchalantly against the nearby table. “I’m positively splendid. Why do you ask?”

“Just _hold still_ —it’s not that hard!”

“I willna turn my back on a she-devil!”

“You have to turn your back on me, or I can’t take the picture!”

“D’you think Pepper will send up more pasties if we send down the empty plate in the dumbwaiter?” Brian asked from behind Azira.

“I’m going out, angel,” Crowley said, donning his hat and coat.

Azira yelped and nearly tumbled to the floor in surprise. Which is what he deserved for leaning against furniture like a heathen in the first place.

“Out? Where? Why?”

“Errands,” he said evasively. “I’ll be back after lunch.”

“But—”

“Don’t have too much fun without me,” he said with a tight smile, and then he was down the stairs and out the door and gone.

 _Fuck_.

“Hey, Dr. Fell? Do you think you could write us a note to put on the plate before we send it down?” Wensleydale asked. “Pepper likes you more than she likes us.”

Silence descended as everyone turned to Azira to hear his response. He looked at them all and then sighed heavily.

“Alright. Get me some paper and something to write with.”

“Wicked!” 

“Thanks, Dr. Fell!”

Wensleydale bounded over with a pencil and a scrap of paper from some drawing or other that likely ought not to have been torn.

Azira took them without comment and wrote as eloquent a request for extra pasties as he could manage, given the circumstances, which were regrettably this: Azira Fell had fallen in love, and the person he’d just shared a night of world-shattering sex with had waltzed from the room without so much as a backward glance at him.

He really should have known better. He _had_ known better.

“Er…Dr. Fell?” Newt said, his expression concerned.

“Yes, Newt?”

“You’re…um…standing in the pasty you dropped.”

“Oh, good _lord_.”

* * *

Crowley was...happy. He was actually happy. Like straight out of a carnival tent, shit-faced on whiskey blissful. He waved at people he passed on the street. He _waved_. At _people_. _Him_. 

And no matter what he did, he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. It was unnatural, but he found that he liked it. He liked waking up with Azira in his arms, even if it was a panicked Azira. He liked smelling him on his sheets in the morning. He liked going over and over in his head all the sex they’d had the night before, seeing Azira lose himself completely, feeling his nails dig into his skin. It was enough to make his stomach twirl and his heart bounce against his ribs. And he _liked_ it.

What he didn’t like was lying to Azira. Just the reminder of it sent his heart limping back to its usual morose corner to sulk. So he’d made up his mind this morning. He was going to come clean to Azira tonight. It might spell the end of their...whatever they were. Crowley wouldn’t blame the man if learning the truth made him hate Crowley. But he hoped not. He really, really hoped not.

He had planned to hold off confessing until he had some way of getting out from under Lucifer’s thumb altogether. Then he could present both to Azira—the betrayal and the way out, for both of them, at the same time. The hope being that if he could present the solution along with the problem, Azira might be more inclined to forgive him.

But he couldn’t in good conscience wait any longer. Not after last night. Azira had kissed him, out of nowhere, and his entire world had flipped upside down. He’d already been in love with the angel, but when Azira had touched him, had let Crowley touch him in return… It just…it changed everything. Again. And he could no longer bear this monstrous secret dividing them. 

Crowley hopped off the tram at the local market, merging with the crowd as if he were a local, haggling for the goods he needed. Which included, he was almost embarrassed to admit, one bullwhip for use during attacks by murderous statuary.

While he was negotiating the camel trader down from a ludicrous sum to a more reasonable amount, he saw _it_ , glinting at him from a pile of similar objects in a bowl a few stalls over. He couldn’t tell what _it_ was exactly, but something about it seemed important, and he hastily paid for the whip and abandoned the stall for the one with the object. 

He didn’t know what exactly about the thing had caught his eye. He certainly couldn’t make out any details from where he’d been standing, talking to the trader. But the second he looked into the bowl and saw it for what it was, he knew precisely why it had called to him and why he absolutely had to have it.

He plucked the ring out of the bowl and cradled it in his palm. Surprisingly weighty for its small size, it lay cool and smooth against his skin. Light reflected off its gold surface as he traced the fine details. A shield, a lion, a suggestion of wings. It was perfect. It was also terrifying. He paid full price for it without even thinking and walked away, pocketing it to avoid facing the truth. It was one thing to be in love with the man, another thing entirely to change your fate.

“A little light shopping?” Ligur said as he stepped in Crowley’s path right where the aisle between stalls had narrowed to a pinch point. Hastur moved to block him from behind as well, cutting off his escape route.

“Now is not the time,” Crowley hissed, eyes darting everywhere to make sure they weren’t seen by anyone he knew.

“Lucifer says when it’s time—not you, snake eyes.”

“He agreed…” Crowley started but then trailed off into a snarl. Talking to these morons wasn’t going to get him anywhere, and arguing was only going to make a scene. “Fine. Let’s just get it over with.”

Ligur and Hastur frogmarched him to a nearby cafe where Lucifer was sitting at a bistro table on the patio, reading a newspaper, a ristretto within easy reach. Hastur pushed him down into a chair opposite Lucifer’s.

“Watch it,” Crowley barked at Hastur.

Lucifer waved his goons away and folded his paper, taking a sip of the ristretto.

When he set the cup down, he said, “So I hear you survived the first trial.”

Crowley’s heart seized in his chest. How the _fuck_ did Lucifer know about that already? Crowley sure as shit hadn’t told him.

“I see by the color draining from your face that you recognize the implications of my statement.”

Crowley scrambled for something to say that didn’t sound disloyal. Unfortunately, all he could come up with to replace it was whinging.

“We agreed that I need space, that I can’t earn his trust while having to report back to you every—”

Lucifer pounded a fist on the table in a rare show of actual temper. Crowley nearly swallowed his tongue.

“The first _trial_ , Crowley. That is not a progress report, that is essential information, and it absolutely cannot wait.”

Crowley decided it would be wise to refrain from further comment for the moment.

“I don’t need to tell you how disappointed I become when my people fail me. You have seen firsthand how I handle those situations.”

Crowley _had_ seen it firsthand, and the very idea that he—or worse, Azira—might experience the same opened a bottomless pit of dread in his stomach.

“Don’t think that because I once saved you from death, that I would hesitate for a second to rip out every single one of your internal organs and show them to you before you die.”

He leaned back in his chair then, the menace in his demeanor receding. He took another sip of his ristretto, as if they’d just been having a pleasant chat.

“Do you know how long I have been searching for this particular artefact, Crowley?”

Crowley shook his head. He knew almost nothing about Lucifer. No one knew much, but Crowley had specifically never asked. He wanted as little to do with Lucifer as he could manage until his indentured servitude was over, or he found a way to escape his debt to Lucifer for saving his life.

“By now, I suppose, you’re familiar with Miss Device’s history. Born in England to a brilliant Egyptologist mother, raised in the Americas when her mother died, only to return to England to follow in her mother’s footsteps?”

“What of it?” Crowley asked, his voice coming out in a hoarse croak.

“Do you happen to know _how_ her mother died?”

“She…” he started to answer, only to realize that he actually had no idea how she died.

“I thought not,” Lucifer said, tapping the table to signal the server to bring him another drink. “Before Ms. Device’s birth, Agnes Nutter hired me to help her with her expedition. I didn’t know at first the full import of what she was searching for. But when the capabilities, the raw _power_ , of the scroll were made known to me, it became clear that she and I were of opposite minds about what to do with it. We argued constantly until she dismissed me, and we went our separate ways. But I never gave up the obsession of acquiring the scroll for myself. Some years later, when I reached the end of my own knowledge, I went in search of her. We argued again, but by then, I had matured into my full potential, and I wasn’t taking no for an answer.”

The server set another cup next to Lucifer’s elbow. Crowley waited until the man left again before stating the obvious.

“You killed her,” Crowley said around the lump in his throat.

“I didn’t just kill her. I tortured her to tell me what she knew, and when she wouldn’t, I burned her alive like the witch she was.”

Crowley shuddered, breaking out in a sickly sweat.

“I tell you this so that there can be no mistake—I will destroy anything that stands in my way. That includes harmless old bats who run brothels, absent-minded professors, and any small children that get underfoot.”

Crowley’s fear morphed into rage. You can’t kill kids. Everyone knows that. He’d figured Lucifer for a depraved criminal before, but he honestly hadn’t understood _how_ depraved, or he’d have done something about it sooner. Not that he could have accomplished much with the level of fiercely loyal protection Lucifer kept around him at all times, but he’d have thought of something. And he’d have had a much easier time pulling it off back when Lucifer wasn’t suspicious of him. 

None of which mattered now. Bemoaning the past never fixed the future. He’d have to find a way to take the bastard down now, and by any means necessary. Lucifer couldn’t be allowed anywhere near that bloody scroll. Azira had been right. And while Crowley’s primary goal was still to protect Azira, he had to find a way to end Lucifer as well.

“And I’m supposed to just ignore the fact that you clearly have someone else in the professor’s camp giving you information? I work alone.”

“You work however I tell you to work. Though, if it makes you feel better, you don't have to think of it as working together so much as me watching your every move for even the slightest sign of betrayal.”

“That’s my point. Everything out of my mouth to Dr. Fell will _sound_ like betrayal to you, because I have to pretend I’m on his side.”

“My informant can tell the difference, and so can I.”

Lucifer downed his second ristretto and stood, signaling to Hastur and Ligur that he was ready to leave.

“Now that you’ve entered the trials, it won’t be long until you find the scroll. I want in-person updates after every trial. Beyond that, I will leave you to your own methods.” He folded his newspaper and tucked it under his arm. “And Crowley?”

“Yes?

“I’ll be watching.”

Crowley sat at the table for an hour after Lucifer left, hands shaking as it finally sank in just how much danger Azira was in. If Lucifer had been willing to torture and kill Agnes, someone he’d known and presumably cared about on some level, then he would have no compunction about doing the same to Azira. He’d certainly said as much, and Crowley knew enough about the man to believe him. 

Which in turn meant that as much as Crowley wanted to, he couldn’t say anything to Azira about his working for Lucifer now, not with the ticking bomb of another informant in their midst. If this morning were any indication, Azira was worse than worthless at keeping secrets. Everyone on the crew, including the informant, must already know of his and Azira’s assignation—and possible relationship?—by now.

Luckily, Crowley could easily play off an assignation as manipulation to Lucifer and his cronies. But Crowley telling Azira that he’d been working for Lucifer this whole time was another matter altogether. It would unequivocally count as betrayal in Lucifer’s eyes. And if Azira knew it, then the informant would undoubtedly find it out. So until Crowley managed to discover the informant’s identity and neutralize them, he had little choice but to keep the secret. Not forever. Just a while longer…

Crowley pushed himself up wearily. Lunch had come and gone, and he needed to head back to the brothel before anyone sent out a search party. Bloody fucking Hell, what a mess.

As he caught the nearest tram, he wracked his brain for who the spy might be. Tracy had known Crowley for years, but she’d known Lucifer for longer. And though she didn’t work for Lucifer, she knew exactly what he was capable of. Newt worked for Crowley who worked for Lucifer, so the assistant defacto worked for Lucifer as well. But he’d been one of Crowley’s staunchest soldiers during the war, and they’d been through a lot more together than working for Lucifer. Still, if his ambition had grown over the years, he might betray Crowley to Lucifer for advancement. Shadwell… No. There was no way. The man was as subtle as a freight train. Which left Anathema. He knew little about her beyond what Lucifer had just told him. It didn’t make a lot of sense that she’d align herself with the man who killed her mother, but he could easily see her being capable of the deception. And there was also the possibility that she simply didn’t know Lucifer was responsible for her mother’s death. 

He arrived at the brothel no closer to narrowing down his list of suspects than he’d been at the cafe. But he shrugged it off and put on his game face. Unlike Azira, Crowley _could_ hide a secret, and he would have to with all his might until he found a solution.

How different his mood was from when he’d left. And yet, the second he saw Azira, his heart couldn’t help but start its twirly foxtrot again. The angel practically glowed when he caught sight of Crowley, which left Crowley feeling like the king of the world and the lowliest maggot at the same time. Either way, he wanted to kiss the man senseless.

_I love him. I really actually love him._

Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise Crowley anymore at this point. But it did. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to the wonder that bloomed in his chest every time he rediscovered it. Which reminded him of the object in his pocket. He couldn’t, though…not tonight. Maybe when all the madness was over, but not tonight.

“You’re back,” Azira said from where he stood by the dining room table, almost exactly where Crowley had left him that morning.

“Yeah,” he said, still bemused by that radiant smile. “Just did some shopping.”

“Are you hungry?” Azira asked.

“Mm, no,” Crowley admitted. “Make any progress while I was gone?”

“Not much,” book-girl commented from where she’d apparently been making tea in the kitchen. It was the first Crowley realized there was anyone else in the room. “All we’ve done so far is identify the amulet from my mother’s description.”

“And?”

“It’s the Amulet of Qebhet, goddess of purity and service to the dead.”

“Well, that’s not ominous.”

“It’s not that surprising, either, given that most things involving Egyptian religion in ancient times revolved around death in one way or another,” Azira said. “Still, the purity is unusual. What would purity have to do with a weapon that levels entire civilizations?”

“And the scarab?”

“Also means death as well as rebirth, transformation,” Anathema supplied as she set a teacup for Azira on the table near his elbow. “Common symbol in ancient Egypt.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. Not like he hadn’t been immersed in Egyptian culture long enough to know something that elementary.

“I meant, what does it have to do with Qebhet? With the scroll?”

“No idea,” she said with a sigh. “All we know is that Shadwell has none of this anywhere on his body. Which means there’s a piece we’re still missing.”

“We’ll find it, dear girl,” Azira said, patting her hand consolingly.

She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “I’m heading down for a nap,” she said. “Let me know when the rest of the gang gets back.”

“Of course,” Azira said as she closed her mother’s journal and headed down the stairs, leaving Azira and Crowley alone.

“Where’s everyone else, then?”

“Shadwell left to go speak with the authorities about his house fire. Newt offered to drive him to the police station.” Azira began reordering the stacks of papers on the table, which Crowley suspected was more to alleviate nervousness than to actually organize anything. “The boys were bored and rambunctious, so Anathema sent them to search the city for any other representations of Qebhet like the one on the amulet.”

Crowley nodded. “Smart, given Adam was the one who found the sigil for the first trial.”

Azira fidgeted and wouldn’t look at him. 

“And you? What were you about to do?”

Azira cleared his throat. “Tea? Yes, tea. I think I’ll...tea,” he mumbled as he started towards the kitchen.

“Anathema just gave you a cup of tea.”

“Oh, yes. Right,” he said, ignoring the tea next to him and fidgeting again.

“Azira, just get it off your chest. Whatever it is.”

Azira swallowed. “I just… We haven’t had a chance to talk since last night, and I wasn’t sure if you hadn’t—well, changed your mind now that the heat of the moment has passed.”

Crowley wanted nothing more in that second than to throw Azira up against the nearest wall and prove just how much his mind had _not_ changed, not in the slightest. But the others could come back at any minute, and there was still much to talk about. So instead he crowded Azira against the table, leaning as far as he dared into the man’s personal space, and said,

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, angel. It’s only gotten hotter.”

“Oh,” Azira said, eyes wide and cheeks a fetching shade of pink. “I see.”

Crowley couldn’t help himself. He leaned forwards just that inch further and pressed his lips as lightly as he could to Azira’s. He’d have to remove his glasses to get more involved, but he couldn’t get as _involved_ as he wanted to right now, if he intended to talk strategy first.

“You were quite something this morning,” Crowley teased, swiveling to lean against the table next to Azira. “Does everyone know about us now?”

“Good lord, no,” Azira said, sounding mortified. “At least, I hope not.”

“You were like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, angel. I’m certain that book-girl at least suspects.”

“Really?” Azira looked worried at the idea. “Do you think I should talk to her? Make up an excuse?”

Crowley shook his head, taking Azira’s hand in his. “Let’s just tell them the truth.”

“Any one of them could report us.”

“They wouldn’t. They’re our friends…for the most part. And why would they care about how we spend our nights?”

“Absolutely not,” Azira said, shivering as if he were having a conversation with Lucifer rather than Crowley. “We cannot risk it, Crowley.”

Crowley was about to reassure him again when it occurred to him that there could be more to Azira’s fear than their present circumstances.

“This isn’t about us, is it?” Crowley said gently, rubbing circles on the back of Azira’s hand the way Azira had done to him when he’d first admitted his eyes were damaged. “What are you so scared of, Azira? Tell me so I can fix it.”

Azira leaned into Crowley’s side for support as he said, “It’s nothing you can fix dear. It happened ages ago.”

“Tell me.”

“My first and only, er, partner, James…”

Crowley felt a growl building in his chest, but he quashed it. Azira was allowed to have other lovers aside from Crowley, especially in the past. He had no right to feel jealous.

“What about him? Did he…hurt…”

“No, no, no. Well, yes, but it wasn’t entirely his fault. It’s just— It— You see, Gabriel—”

“Gabriel? As in your brother Gabriel?”

Azira looked away, clearly embarrassed or hurt. Crowley hated it more than anything. He threaded his fingers through Azira’s and brought his hand up to his mouth to kiss it.

“Is this why he frightens you?”

“He doesn’t frighten me exactly,” Azira said. “He is just very _insistent_ that he is right, that the doctrines of our faith are the only…” He made a frustrated noise. “This is all so difficult to talk about.”

“Did _he_ hurt you?”

Azira paused for so long that Crowley thought he might not answer.

“Yes. Once,” he said at last. “When he caught me and James in bed, sleeping, the way Anathema almost caught us this morning.”

Crowley stilled, an avalanche of emotions crashing over him all at once.

“It was twenty years ago, now," Azira continued. "Water under a very old bridge.”

“It could have been a thousand years ago, and it would be just as wrong as if he’d done it yesterday,” Crowley said through gritted teeth. “Was James there when he…?”

“No. Gabriel had already run him off. When I objected to Gabriel’s treatment of him was when— Well. The less said on that the better, I imagine.”

“The bastard _left_ you there, alone with a raving lunatic?”

“A raving lunatic _brother_ ,” Azira qualified. “He probably thought Gabriel was more of a threat to him than to me.”

“It was cowardly of him to leave you like that.”

“Oh, that’s a bit harsh, dear. I don’t—”

“Would you have left him in a similar situation?”

“I— No. No, I suppose not, unless he asked me to.”

“Did you ask him to leave?”

Azira shook his head. “I told him to stay, that Gabriel should be the one to leave, but…obviously, that’s not what happened.”

“He should have stayed,” Crowley said, shaking his head. “I would have beaten Gabriel to a bloody pulp for daring to lay a finger on you.”

Azira shivered again, and Crowley released his hand to wrap his arm around the angel’s shoulders.

“I’m not afraid of him,” Azira repeated. “But he cost me a lot. James wouldn’t even speak to me after that. No matter how much I begged him to at least let me apologize.”

“You had nothing to apologize for,” Crowley growled. “He was a spineless git. You deserved better.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Azira said, nuzzling Crowley’s shoulder with a contented sigh. “I would rather be here with you than anywhere else with him.”

Crowley again felt the twin pangs of elation and self-loathing, and he pulled Azira closer. 

“This is why you’re afraid to tell the others? You think they will hurt you like Gabriel did?”

“I doubt they have quite as effective a right hook as Gabriel,” Azira tried to joke, but Crowley growled again rather than laughed. If he ever met Gabriel, he couldn’t promise not to test his own right hook on Gabriel’s face. “But I suppose, yes, I am afraid that they’ll disapprove. I shouldn’t care so much what they think, but I…I have no one else, Crowley.”

“You will always have me.”

“I wish that were—” Azira paused, then started again. “I hope that’s true, dear boy.”

Crowley shifted then, taking off his glasses and dropping them on the table.

“Believe it, angel,” he said, then he closed the gap between them and sealed his promise on Azira’s lips. 

Azira moved then, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s rib cage, deepening the kiss, which Crowley was all too happy to accommodate. Fuck strategy. He needed this. He needed Azira, and Azira needed him. He could already feel the press of Azira’s erection through his trousers, and he wanted nothing more than to prove to Azira that he would do anything in his power to keep Azira safe, to provide for him, to make him happy, starting with fulfilling his every carnal desire. 

“Ahem.”

Azira leapt backward, topping a chair in his haste. Crowley grabbed his arm to keep him from falling. Meanwhile, book-girl looked on, completely unperturbed, as if she’d just interrupted a conversation over the weather.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, reaching between them to snag a few pages of loose paper from the table. “I came back for some notes.”

“My dear girl, you… I…”

Anathema shot him a glance of amused exasperation. “I suppose it was inevitable. Just don’t let this jackass break your heart.”

“Oi, this jackass is right bloody here.”

“Sentiment still stands.”

Crowley scoffed, but really didn’t have a leg to stand on and knew it. He crossed his arms and frowned at her.

“I…” 

Azira looked half-afraid, and Crowley would have pulled him into his arms again if he dared. But he didn’t want to make any decisions for the angel. It was up to him how he wanted to handle this. Then he straightened his spine and lifted his chin and looked book-girl straight in the eye.

“Crowley and I are...together. It’s not a secret. You can tell the others if you wish.”

Anathema put her hand on his shoulder and smiled into his eyes. “It’s none of my business, Dr. Fell, and as long as you’re happy, I’m happy.”

Then she pivoted to Crowley.

“ _You_ , on the other hand, had better take good care of him. And if at any point you _don’t_ treat him like the treasure he is, then you will have to reckon with me.”

“Fair enough,” he said, though he hoped it would never come to that.

Anathema nodded curtly and then left a second time, saying, “I’ll just lock the door on my way out, shall I?”

“That would be appreciated, my dear,” Azira said, the pink in his cheeks deepening as he looked at Crowley.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Crowley said, pulling Azira into his arms again.

Azira shook his head, his smile widening. “It felt…good.”

Crowley threaded his fingers through Azira’s soft curls. “You never have to tell anyone you don’t want to. Say anything you want if you’re feeling unsafe. Just know that I will always support you, lie for you, protect you.”

“Egypt is so different from England. It keeps surprising me.”

“It is, and it isn’t. The danger is everywhere. But the possibilities here are endless. I stayed, in part, because this place has seen so much history that people don’t think about right and wrong in the same way. It’s what you do, not who you are.”

Azira nodded as if this made sense to him, and Crowley hoped it did. 

“Are you never scared?” Azira asked, his expression sad.

“I’m scared all the time, but not about that.”

“Will you tell Tracy?”

“I’m sure she’s already Seen it, but yes. I will go and tell her now, if you want me to.”

“No, I just mean…” Azira laughed nervously. “She’s someone you care about, and I wanted to know if you would tell her…about us.”

Crowley kissed his forehead in answer.

Azira then captured Crowley’s mouth in a searing kiss that melted his bones into jelly. The kiss quickly escalated to moans and roaming hands and stumbling towards Crowley’s bedroom.

Crowley made quick work of Azira’s clothes, becoming more adept by the minute at maneuvering all the buttons and ties and various fastenings. Azira did the same for Crowley, flinging his jacket across the desk chair, and tossing a shoe nearly into a lamp.

“I want you,” Crowley said breathlessly, as he pulled off Azira’s undershirt. “I’ve thought of little else all day.”

“Crowley,” Azira said, his voice catching as Crowley thrust his hips against him, pushing him down into the mattress.

“I want all of you.”

“I want that, too, but not yet, darling. We needn’t rush.”

Crowley growled, sucking harder than he normally would at Azira’s pulse point before breaking contact.

“I don’t understand the difference. How is what we’ve already done not _too far_ , and yet me being inside you is?”

“It’s not different, I suppose,” Azira said around a gasp as Crowley wrapped his fingers around Azira’s cock. “And yet it can be for some people. Emotionally. As if that particular act is more sinful than others.”

“Do you believe that?” Crowley asked, stroking Azira’s shaft to greater fullness.

“N-no!” he said, squirming under Crowley’s ministrations. “I don’t know. I worry about you.”

“I’ve told you, I am not religious. I don’t think that way.”

“I know, but…sometimes it surprises people…what bothers them…after…”

“If it bothers me—which it won’t—then we’ll talk about it, Azira.”

“What if… Oh, God, Crowley, that feels so good.”

“What if what, angel?”

A few minutes went by with inarticulate sounds instead of words as Azira thrust mindlessly into Crowley’s hand.

“What if what?” Crowley said again, swirling his fingers around the head of Azira’s cock. 

“What if you won’t want to see me again? What if it bothers you that much?”

Crowley pulled his hand away from Azira’s cock to cup Azira’s jaw in his hand, encouraging Azira to look at him.

“It won’t. But even if it did, I care about _you_ too much to just walk out of your life. This is great, but it isn’t everything.”

“It’s not?”

Crowley kissed him then, ending the conversation, the questions, the doubts. Then he broke away again to say,

“We can take this as slow as you want, angel. Just tell me what to do.”

“I want to-to taste you,” Azira said. “Is that alright?”

Crowley shuddered violently at the thought. “It is very much alright,” he said, his voice a mere shadow of itself.

“Lay back,” Azira said, an emboldened smile on his cherubic face. Crowley obliged at once, his own cock at full mast. “Mm, you look quite scrumptious, my dear. A full meal, certainly, and with dessert afterwards.”

With this pronouncement, he settled between Crowley’s legs. He cradled Crowley’s balls in his hand as he nosed Crowley’s shaft, humming in anticipation to himself.

“Nnng,” Crowley said as he leaked precum at the sight. “Angel…”

But Azira was focused on his treat. With his pretty pink tongue, he licked the drops of precum from Crowley’s shaft, just barely grazing Crowley’s cock as he worked his way up to the head. Crowley cursed and shook, trying desperately to hold still. 

“You are so delicious, dear boy. I cannot wait to have you entirely in my mouth.”

Crowley cursed again, his hips thrusting forward of their own accord. Then Azira took pity on him, and finally wrapped those angelic lips around Crowley’s cock, blowing Crowley’s mind apart entirely. 

It was _warm_ , for one thing, and the pressure was building unbearably. And that was _before_ Azira curled his tongue around Crowley’s shaft and pushed down his length towards his groin, stroking his balls as he did so.

Crowley nearly lost all control, doing everything in his power to keep from moving, from flipping Azira over and fucking mindlessly into his mouth. Oh, bloody hell, his _mouth._ Azira’s _mouth_ was on Crowley’s _cock_. 

Crowley whimpered, actually _whimpered_ , with overwhelming lust. And then Azira pulled all the way back to Crowley’s tip before driving forward again, in one brutally sensual thrust. Crowley groaned deeply, his awareness fraying at the edges. Then Azira repeated the motion, pulling back just to the very tip, nipping lightly at the head with his teeth to provoke extra sensation, before plunging forward again down his shaft. 

Crowley’s ears rang as he grasped Azira’s shoulders. “Angel…coming…can’t…”

Instead of pulling off, though, Azira pushed himself that little bit further down Crowley’s cock, gripping his hip with one hand and pressing the sensitive area behind Crowley’s balls. Crowley arched up as Azira’s insistence shredded the last of his control. 

The orgasm hit him like a tidal wave pounding a rocky shore. He shook with the impact, pulsing into Azira’s throat, coming harder than he had last night, which in itself had been a revelation. He shouted Azira’s name as he clutched the headboard, barely clinging to consciousness as Azira sucked his cock through the orgasm, swallowing down his spend, making the same explicit noises that he did when relishing a fine wine.

Several moments later, when Crowley’s brain finally re-engaged, he felt himself trembling like a leaf. Azira had wrapped him in a blanket and pulled him into his arms, Crowley’s back to the angel’s front. When had that happened, and why hadn’t Crowley noticed?

“There, darling,” Azira murmured against the nape of his neck. “I have you.”

“I— Nrg— _Fuck_ , Azira. How? I can’t even—”

Azira hummed delightedly, nibbling the edge of Crowley’s ear before responding.

“Now you know how I felt last night.”

“What the fuck _was_ that?”

“Have you never had oral sex before?” Azira asked, sounding surprised.

“That wasn’t oral sex, angel. That was you sucking my soul out through my cock.”

Azira laughed, and it was the most heavenly sound Crowley had ever heard.

“I don’t know that it was your soul, dear, but it certainly tasted divine.”

“I want to know what you taste like,” Crowley said, realizing as he said it that he wanted it desperately. 

“Well, I would certainly—”

But before he could finish the thought, some idiot started banging on the downstairs door. 

“Fucking Hell,” Crowley swore. “Can’t they leave us alone for five fucking minutes?”

Azira rolled Crowley over onto his back and kissed him deeply before getting out of bed and searching for his discarded clothing.

“We can revisit this…discussion…later tonight, dear.”

“But what about that sizable erection I can see from all the way over here?”

Azira paused to arch an eyebrow at him. “I will simply have to take care of it myself in the bathroom.”

Crowley went hot all over at the thought of Azira’s hands on himself, thinking of Crowley, getting himself off out of a necessity that Crowley had caused.

“Nghh, angel. You’re killing me.”

Having gathered his clothes, he bent to kiss Crowley soundly a second time. “I know. I’d let you watch, but you have a door to answer.”

Crowley made to grab him before he could escape to the bathroom, but Azira twirled out of reach.

“Nice try, tempter.”

With a wink, he was gone, leaving all of Crowley’s worries to settle into the space he’d left behind.


End file.
